Nightshade
by MinP1072
Summary: An AU "what-if" — What if after the death of Alan Fitch, the Cabal had decided to take more decisive action to eliminate the threat Red represents? An dark and angsty look at manipulation, cruelty, and the fragility of the mind.
1. Chapter 1

It is just a shape, barely more than a shadow, that dangles from the concrete block wall. A brief disturbance of the air, not quite a noise, just enough to show that the shape might once have been human. A slow and steady drip, too thick to be water; life leaking away.

He stands in the arch of the doorway, admiring the fine cruelty of his work. Long, thin, a streak of ink against the buzzing blue light of the hallway. Smiling, always smiling. He loves his job.

"So," he says conversationally, his voice in the muffled grey as startling as a gunshot. The hanging shape twitches in alarm; it is conditioned, now, to associate sound with pain. "What do you have to tell me, Jacob?"

Another ruffle of air; an attempt at a cough. The dark man waits, eternally patient. "Th-the girl," a choked whisper, barely audible, the sound of rock in a grinder. "E-Elizabeth. Sh-she's the way…"

Drip drip drip.

It's hypnotic, the man muses, like a love song or a lullaby. There is nothing more from the broken shadows, but nothing more is needed. The man briefly considers snapping the pathetic creature's neck, but it wasn't worth the effort. Death is but a breath away, waiting quietly in the wings.

He strides away, pulling out a phone, Jacob Phelps already forgotten behind him.

* * *

Breathe, you son of a bitch!

A choked-off scream.

Then everything is quiet, so quiet. The inky silence is exquisitely beautiful. He cannot remember ever feeling this overwhelming peace.

...edding...up!

Sound intrudes, unsought, unwelcome.

...got to...up, Red!

Breath inhaled, knives in his chest. He coughs, painfully; panic chasing the beautiful black away like it had never been. Eyes open, gritty and sore — something is wrong…

"Where is she? Where is she?"

Staggering, lurching, dragging like a lunatic drunk. Blood runs from his ear down his neck like thick honey to pool at his collarbone.

Regrouping, rearming, steeling himself. Only her, he reminds himself, that's what matters now.

"I just told you the animals are loose. They're gonna kill you out there! What are you gonna do?"

"I'm going to get her back." This he knows, no matter what else happens, no matter what he has to do.

But he doesn't.

* * *

"How does it feel to have something people are willing to die for locked up in that pretty little head of yours?"

Her head pounds, ears ringing, vision still blurred.

"I don't know anything!"

"We'll see."

Two small words. How can two small words strike such bone-deep terror into her heart?

And she's right to be afraid.

Caught, bound, trapped; suffocating and drowning all at once. Burning, it burns in her nose and throat, and there is no air to be had and she's blind.

Relief, brief and cold, a rush of air. A harsh voice pounds at her.

"The Fulcrum. Where. Is. It?"

She tries to answer; chokes instead on water, mucus, bile that floods her throat. She hacks and gasps, tears running freely, a black, star-speckled sky filling her vision. The voice drums on, but dimmer, faded behind the sound of her own harsh breath.

Something about memories, about opening her head to dig through what is inside.

What she could hear now, instead, over the man, over her troubled breath, is herself. A mantra repeated, over and over, louder and louder, Red, Red, RED!

* * *

Talking to Braxton has enraged him; the thought of that ape rampaging through her brain both terrifying and infuriating. He longs to have the creature's throat under his hands.

Keep moving, he just has to keep moving, keep talking, keep doing. Money, threats, men — whatever it takes, whatever it takes to see her safe again.

Time a rabid dog at his heels.

* * *

She floats, just like the nice doctor told her too. Whatever those drugs are, they are lovely; she hasn't been this relaxed in…

Tension snaps back, hard, there's something… she is there… Lizzie?

What do you see?

Lost in memory, the fire burns through her mind, chases her, devouring. Her mind, her body, fight each other; the memory of fire rips and tears and hurts, it hurts her. Lost, she is lost.

Voices in the background, new voices shout, rage.

No, no, why is everyone so angry? Hide, Lizzie, hide, stay safe.

Bang, bang, so loud, over and over; it's not the fire, it's something else. Beeping like a shriek in her ear. Lizzie is crying, screaming, running from the new voice, long and thin and dark, and hide, Lizzie, hide.

Her blood pressure's through the roof. She's in v-tech.

Her head hurts. The fire is gone, everything is gone; dark.

* * *

The crunch of his fist in the informant's face is sublimely satisfying. He tries to hold the feeling, keep it with him, let it fuel him as he keeps moving, keeps moving.

Braxton was nothing but a puppet, a shill, but there is still great satisfaction to be had in watching his head explode like a dropped watermelon. But as the shots fade away, the building fills with a silence that chills him to the core.

Dembe behind him, always the faithful, they run — up stairs, around corners, up and in and up and in.

It is anti-climatic to burst through the wide doors and see nothing. Nothing but an empty, echoing cavern of a room; a drained pool filled with medical equipment scattered and lost.

He is too late, too late. She is gone, gone, gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Her head hurts so much it almost doesn't feel real. She can't remember where she is or what has been happening. Is she… Has there been a fire? A swell of frantic panic sweeps through her, increasing her nausea and sense of dislocation — where is her daddy?

A scream flutters in her throat, trapped and aching — Daddy! But even the word suddenly felt strange in her mind.

Wait, she thought, wait, that's not right.

She wonders why it's so dark — it takes her four or five long breaths before she realizes that her eyes are closed. Her eyelids flutter weakly. What iswrong with her?

"No, no, Elizabeth. Keep your eyes closed."

That voice. The one from before, dark and thin and shiny. It is calm and quiet, almost friendly, really. There's no reason at all for it to send the chill through her body that it does.

She keeps her eyes tight shut all the same.

The man that the voice belongs to is having a murmured conversation with someone; a woman, someone familiar… Dr. Orchard?

"Add this to your drug cocktail, please."

"It-It's too risky! I don't know what effect…"

"That is not your concern, Doctor. You just need to do what I say, and take her back."

Oh no, she thinks, a whimper in her throat. I don't want to remember anymore.

A tear slides silently down her cheek, and she wishes desperately that she were still unconscious.

* * *

He strides into the dank underground blacksite, rage straining at the leash.

"What are you doing to find her?" A harsh demand, civility and aplomb long worried away.

"Hello to you, too," Ressler snaps back irritably. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Putting things in motion," he returns shortly. "What do you know?"

"Virtually nothing," Cooper cuts in, angry, frustrated. "You took out Braxton; whoever took Agent Keen killed everyone else. The doctor and her son have vanished without a trace."

"That's it?" he spits in disbelief. "No surveillance, no eyes anywhere, nothing?"

"Look, Reddington," Ressler returns, stepping into Reddington's space, enraged, exhausted. "Keen is my partner, she's a member of this team. We are doing everything possible to…"

"Um, excuse me, Agent Ressler." Aram's quiet voice cuts across the room. "But I think you need to see this."

Ressler marches across the room, brushing past Reddington with a brusque movement that is almost a shove. He is lucky, in that moment, that looks cannot, in fact, kill.

A silence; the air darkens, deepens.

"Well, Donald, what have you?" Red's dry tones shatter the air.

"Remains." Ressler sounds more than a little ill. "Positively identified as having once been Tom Keen."

"Fascinating," Reddington answers; turns away and strides back to the elevator. "I'll leave you to it, then."

They watch, dumbfounded, as he sweeps away, leaving them wondering what on earth this pile of meat masquerading as a body could possible have told him.

* * *

She is lost, so lost — images flash by like billboards on a highway, snapshots of another life.

"Elizabeth…" The kind woman's voice calls, but she doesn't want to answer, she's hiding.

But she giggles, she can't help it, it is so much fun.

"Where are you, Elizabeth? You need to answer me."

She doesn't want to answer, but… she also does. What a very strange feeling, she thinks dreamily.

"I'm hiding," she sings out. "We have to be quiet."

"Are you at home?"

"No, we're outside, we're playing outside, shhh."

"Let's go in, Elizabeth, and back. Let's go back to the night of the fire."

She can remember not wanting to think about the fire, but she wants to do whatever the voice says. So she does, flicking through her mind.

"It's hot in here," she whimpers.

"Are you hiding still? Are you in the closet? What can you see?"

"Mommy and Daddy are fighting…"

"That's good." The man speaks again, dark and slithery like a snake. "Thank you, Dr. Orchard. Now, Elizabeth, tell me, do you see the other man there? He isn't as tall as your daddy, and he's wearing a long coat and a hat."

"No, there isn't any… I-I do, I see him. Is he a friend?"

"No, Elizabeth, he's not a friend. See him yelling at your daddy?"

"Why are they all fighting?" Panic rises inside, choking her, making her shake. "I want to go! Can't they see it? Can't they see the fire?"

"He won't let them go; won't let them help you. He's keeping them away from you. Wait," and the voice sounds almost gleeful now. "I think he has a gun!"

And that's when she starts to scream, the first time.

* * *

He paces, impatient, while he talks and talks and talks.

Every contact he can think of, every favour owed, every rock turned.

Nothing. Not a single trace.

So there's only one answer, he thinks grimly, and it isn't a good one.

Dembe watches impassively as he breaks yet another burner phone against the wall, incandescent with fury.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he rages, unable to leave it unsaid, words bitter in his mouth.

"It means Solomon has her," Dembe replies calmly. "But we will find her, Raymond."

"One thread," he mutters, pacing, pacing. "One thread to pull, it's all I need. Just pray for me, my friend, that I don't find it too late."


	3. Chapter 3

She floats — not quite awake, not quite dreaming.

She is cold, so cold — wet and sticky with blood, old and new; with dirt and salt and god knows what else; dizzy as if she lacked anything to anchor her to the earth.

Her world has become a small, dark place full of pain and fear and obedience — and the voice, the voice that seems to never stop and follows her everywhere, even into unconsciousness.

But this time, this time it is another sound that focuses her attention. A snapping crack, then another, louder — like the breaking of a tree branch in a silent wood.

A breath passes, then two.

And then, then agony, like fire, followed by a wave of nausea that blinds her with its intensity as she shakes like a leaf on the verge of falling.

As her vision slowly returns in a pattern of tiny dancing lights, as her innards churn and her blood runs sluggishly from a dozen slicing wounds she can't name, she wishes. She wishes with every small bit of herself left to grasp that death will finally come to her.

And always, always, the voice, dark and thick, whispers across her skin and spiders into her ears.

"Don't forget," it chants, "don't forget, Reddington, it's Reddington."

 _Reddington_ , she thinks dreamily, the pain already fading as the dark takes over again. _Reddington…Redding…Red…Red…Red…_ Like the colour of the world now.

* * *

He's alone when the phone finally rings, nursing a bottle of high-end Scotch, the sound of the ringer harsh and unforgiving in his quiet rooms. He doesn't recognize the number, but answers it anyway — though all his leads have run dry days ago, he can't quite help the pang of hope.

What he does recognize is the dark, silken tone on the other end, and immediately jerks to attention.

"Ah, Raymond," Solomon says. "I seem to have found something that you've misplaced. If you'd care to collect it…"

He drawls on while Red sits silent, giving Red an address in Jessup and a time to arrive there.

"Is she alive?" Red finally manages, fear clawing at his insides like a small, vicious animal.

"You'll have to wait and see," Solomon gloats in return. "I'd be right on time, if I were you. And Raymond, I know you never go anywhere alone, but I'd keep the… entourage to a bare minimum."

And then there's nothing but the buzz of the dial tone, a pounding heart, and a cold sweat.

He's calling for Dembe before he's even up and moving.

* * *

He stands, a statue overlooking the swift figures of Dembe and Baz, his expression hidden behind hat and sunglasses. The only indication of his inner turmoil is a single finger tapping restlessly against his leg.

He manages not to check his watch.

"Just another minute while we scan the building for heat," Baz says briefly as he passes, his movements quick and efficient and reassuring.

Red remains still; he feels frozen — both ice-cold and unable to move or speak.

But then, then his head jerks at the sound of an engine behind him in the empty lot, his blank face transforming into a portrait of rage in an instant.

Ressler and Navabi swing out of their standard FBI black SUV with stoic faces.

"That's right," Ressler barks preemptively. "We've been watching you. I knew you wouldn't tell us if you got anything on Keen."

He curses the anxiety and panic that have made him careless. "And did you take a moment, Agent Ressler, to think that might be for good reason?" His tone is acerbic enough to make both agents wince.

"Your reasons are your own," Ressler returns evenly. "But she's one of us, _my_ partner, and she's going to need help."

They both start when Baz approaches to announce they are good to go. "There's no sign of any trap, any hostiles. There's barely any sign of… anything at all."

Reddington draws a deep breath, the creases harsh on his face, his years sitting heavily on him, and then nods.

"After you, then, Donald."

Ressler and Samar take the lead, scanning carefully, weapons out and ready. Red and Dembe sweep behind, peering through the dim light for anything out of place, for any sign of the woman they seek.

Ressler gives the signal to stop when he sees it, alone in the centre of the cavernous warehouse room — a small, black heap, like a pile of discarded cloth.

Approaching carefully, he confirms, with a sinking heart, that the forlorn pile is, in fact, the crumpled form of Elizabeth Keen.


	4. Chapter 4

Ressler has already turned away, his face inscrutable, hammering orders into his phone, when Red is able to force himself to move, feet like lead.

Samar is crouched beside the still form on the floor, her fingers searching delicately, as if afraid to cause any more harm.

"Agent Navabi." His voice is somehow heavy and hesitant at once, and makes her shudder.

"She's alive," Samar replies hurriedly. "Her pulse is weak, but it's there, and she's breathing. Her right arm is certainly broken, and she's bleeding — I can't tell from how many places without moving her."

He crouches too, reaching out, then leaves his hand hovering over her doubtfully.

"Elizabeth," he says quietly, brokenly. "Lizzie."

Then, unbelievably, the huddled form stirs at the sound of his voice, her head trying to lift, to look.

"Re–Red…" Her voice is barely a whisper, as if it has been stolen from her.

Even more unbelievably, she begins to twitch and struggle, her left arm fighting to reach him — even on her dank and filthy garments, he can see fresh blood start to seep.

"Stop, Lizzie, be still," he says, truly alarmed, his hands running through the air around her as if to soothe, but still afraid to touch.

She stops moving the moment he asks, but as her head lolls back, he can see a terrible struggle on her ravaged face, a sharp glint in her fogged eyes. As her arm drops back to the ground, he sees a small pocketknife clenched in her fist.

Before he can begin to reason it out, sirens fill the air, and the room fills rapidly with medical personnel, a team of medics swarming past to attend her, pushing him roughly aside.

It seems like every other person in the room is shouting, rushing, _doing_ all around him in a merry-go-round of movement. It seems like no time at all has passed when she is strapped to a stretcher and being taken from him again — this time disappearing into an ambulance.

Ressler steps up beside him as he heaves himself to his feet. "They're taking her to Mercy," he says quietly. "She'll be well guarded. Will we see you there?"

 _As if I'd be anywhere else_.

"Dembe and I will be right behind you, Donald."

* * *

It is a long wait — interminable hours before a drawn and exhausted doctor in bloody scrubs faces them.

"Family?" she asks tiredly. "Next of kin?"

Red and Ressler eye each other irritably.

"We're it," Ressler says shortly. "Agent Keen has no living blood relatives."

"Okay, then," the doctor replies with a heavy sigh. "Agent Keen is stable, for now."

The ice around Red's heart cracks a little, feeling coming back into his fingers and toes.

"Physically," she continues, "she's in rough shape. Her right radius and ulna have both been snapped in two. She's got four broken ribs, two more cracked; her left tibia is fractured; she has considerable internal bruising — we had to remove her spleen. The lacerations to her torso are of varying severity, but she's lost a considerable amount of blood. There are no visible signs of sexual assault, but…

"Her system was full of drugs — sedatives, a combination of psychotropics used, we think, for some kind of hypnosis or memory alteration. There is a large amount of something we've identified as scopolamine, which leaves the brain wide open to suggestion and obliged — eager, even — to obey any suggestion or instruction given.

"We won't know how her mind has been affected until she regains consciousness. You'll need to be extremely careful what you say to her until her system is completely clear — it'll take at least another day, although the blood transfusions have helped."

"How long until she wakes up?" Red asks, anger a hot, surging tide within that threatens to rise up and choke him.

"That's anybody's guess," the doctor says. "All we can do at this point is wait."

* * *

And so he waits.

Ressler, Samar, Aram, even Cooper come and go, but he stays, nursing his hate and holding her hand with all the gentleness left in him.

Dembe sits outside, faithfully guarding them both as the assigned FBI minders rotate like clockwork, marking the hours.

He has lost track of how long he's been sitting there, silent and numb, when her eyes finally flutter open and the horrible knot in his throat starts to ease, his queasiness to calm.

"Lizzie," he breathes out, leaning over so she'll be able to see his face without moving. "Don't try to talk, sweetheart, just…"

His voice trails off as her eyes focus on his and sharpen, change like lightning; as a sound comes from her that he can only describe as a growl, raspy and hoarse as it may be.

It's less than a second before her hand is ripped from his and she's there, moving, on him like an animal, her hands around his throat despite her cast arm.

Tubes tear loose from her and their machines both with pops and tears. Alarms start to sound as her momentum, slight as it is, carries them backward and his head bounces painfully off the floor. He cannot move or fight back, his system shocked into stillness.

As his vision narrows and darkens, as he tries to reach her, he can see the tears streaking her face as she stutters out his name again and again.

His breath starts to shorten into harsh gasps, and then she is gone.

And then everything is gone but the pain.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes the two of them, Ressler and Dembe both, to pry her off of him in the end, even in her weakened state.

Ressler has never seen anything quite like her face — a rictus of fear and rage, anger and despair. Despite the agony she must be in, she fights them like a wild animal desperate to escape a trap.

In response to the wild shrieking of alarms, a nurse rushes in — between the three of them, they manage to buckle her into restraints, leaving only her cast arm free. Another nurse is already on the floor with Reddington; Dembe joins him, looking as worried as Ressler has ever seen.

He turns back to the bed; she's staring at the ceiling tile, muttering under her breath, her fingers still twitching, her frame shaking.

"Keen!" he says sharply, alarmed almost to the point of fear. "Agent Keen, _what_ is going on?"

She doesn't answer, doesn't even blink; doesn't give any sign that she's heard him at all.

An orderly comes in with a gurney for Red — the squeak of the wheels, the thunk of the brakes, is what finally catches her attention. When she sees Reddington being lifted and wheeled past her, she starts to shriek.

"We're going to have to sedate her, sir," the nurse says, shouldering past Ressler and attending efficiently to Liz's IV. "The doctor will be in shortly to examine her arm — it may need to be recast."

As the onslaught of fresh drugs swallow her screams, Ressler heads out into the hall to lean against the wall in exhaustion. He knows nothing more than an hour ago of what happened to her during her capture. What he does know is that is was clearly much, much worse than anything he could have imagined.

* * *

He imagines himself in a boat; a perfect sail, a calm sea. But he can't place himself in it, can't hold the image steady. The waves start to toss, the sky to turn dark, no matter what he does.

So he wakes himself, instead, reluctantly and resentfully, to find that his world has become a wallow of pain.

The back of his head is a bright spot of agony, sending pangs across his scalp. His neck throbs in time, his throat thick and aching, spasming lightly as he breathes in rasps.

"You must not try to speak, Raymond."

Dembe's quiet tones give some reassurance, and he rolls his head slightly to the side to meet his friend's gaze.

Dembe sighs, knowing.

"Agent Keen is safe, Raymond, and only a little the worse for wear. They had to open her cast and reset her arm, but surgery was not necessary.

" _You_ , however, have a concussion, a fractured skull, and a bruised and swollen larynx. She did not, thankfully, have enough strength to damage any of the bones in your neck or spine. You'll need to stay in bed at least a week, and you must not speak and you cannot eat."

Red gives a faint grunt of displeasure — this is unacceptable and Dembe knows it. He has neither the time nor the inclination to spend a week in bed, and something must be done about Lizzie. Something is terribly wrong…

He supposes that he should be glad he was distracted enough by his frantic hunt to not notice Aram's discreet monitoring — if he had come to her alone, as Solomon intended, he would likely be dead now. Probably they would both be dead.

"I will speak with her," Dembe says soothingly, "and see what she can tell us of what Solomon did. But you must rest, Raymond, and heal. And you _must_ stay away from Agent Keen until we know what is going on."

* * *

She dreams of pain — it wraps itself around her, seeps into her, smothers her.

She wakes up gasping, trying to curl up, to protect herself. But she cannot. She can't move at all.

She tosses her head anxiously. On one side of her, a man is awkwardly asleep in a stiff chair — she recognizes him. Ress-Ressler, that's it, Ressler. She calms a little. Ressler is a sign of safety — she thinks it must mean she is home.

She turns to the other side, and the panic flutters once again — another man, large and dark, dark, like… But no, no, she thinks, her mind clearing. This isn't the one, not _him_ , this man exudes calm, watches her with quiet eyes and a peaceful face.

She reaches inside for his name. He is… he is Dembe, Dembe, a friend, and she smiles and tries to reach out to him.

Dembe leans in and pats her left hand reassuringly, then takes it in his own. She gasps at the solid warmth of it, tears rushing to her eyes.

"Dembe," she chokes out. "Oh, it's so good to see you."

"Elizabeth," he replies, finding a smile for her in return. "It is good to see you safe as well."

She clings to his hand, feeling anchored again, at last.

"Dembe," she says again. "Do you know… why am I tied down? Is this… isn't this a hospital? Am I safe? Is this… Is this even real? What's happening?"

He raises an eyebrow in surprise. "Do you not remember?" he asks gently. "What happened here?"

"I don't… everything's blurry. All I can remember is pain…" She trails off, shaky and strained.

He blinks thoughtfully. "The last time you woke," he says. "You attacked Raymond — we had to restrain you to keep you from him, and to keep you from hurting yourself further."

" _I_ did?" she asks incredulously. "I attacked someone? But I… my arm is in a cast, my leg, all these bandages, how…?"

"You did not seem inclined to let your injuries stop you, Elizabeth," he answers gravely. "You were quite… intent on doing harm. I think you would have killed Raymond if we had not been here to stop you."

"But… but I… wait," she says, her voice getting higher and tighter. "Raymond… do I know… wait, Raymond, Raymond _Reddington_?"

Her monitor starts to beep out warnings as her system jumps and leaps and floods with adrenaline.

"Of course," Dembe replies, confused now, too. "Who else?"

"Where is he?" she demands, yanking at her restraints, thrashing in the bed. "I have to… he has to be stopped, Dembe, he's evil, evil, and I'm the only one–"

"Elizabeth," Dembe's voice rises over her frantic cries. " _Elizabeth_! Stop it. Be still." His large hand rests heavily on hers, his eyes meeting Ressler's across the bed where he has jolted awake.

Her frantic breathing starts to slow, her movements to still, as she focuses on his calm, peaceful face.

"Raymond is a friend to you," Dembe says carefully. "He would never hurt you, Elizabeth. What is it you have been told?"

"Told?" she asks, weary now, and sounding heavy and sad. "Nothing. He didn't need to tell me. He showed me, the shadow man, he showed me terrible things. So many terrible things. Reddington, always Reddington, always there, killing and destroying, leaving devastation everywhere in his wake."

She catches Dembe's gaze again, and the weight of her sorrow strikes him like a fist.

"I know you care for him, Dembe," she continues, turning her hand under his to grip his fingers with surprising strength. "But it's not enough. There can't be any redemption. Reddington has to die."


	6. Chapter 6

Dembe sits heavily in the thin, uncomfortable chair beside the narrow bed. He can see that Red is awake, but he doesn't turn in greeting, only stares at the ceiling, chewing absently at his cheek.

Dembe, shaken inside and cold, colder than he has ever felt, carefully takes Red's hand in his own.

"I am so sorry, my brother," he says, his voice cracked and tired. "But it… it's over now."

Red does turn to him then, his eyes wide and wild, his hand clenching down hard in Dembe's grip.

"No, not that." Dembe hastens to soothe, wincing inwardly at his choice of words. "She lives, she… she will recover, I promise you. But Raymond…" he hesitates, unsure of the right words.

There are no right words.

"Raymond, she… Elizabeth is not just broken. She has been broken down, oh so carefully, and put back together differently. Put back together as a weapon, a weapon aimed straight at your heart."

Red's face pales as Dembe speaks; falls in on itself like an empty shirt. He squeezes Dembe's hand once more, a wordless plea. Dembe sighs; rubs at his eyes with his free hand.

"We spoke of what she can recall of her ordeal. Together with what her doctor has been able to tell us of her condition, what we can gather is this.

"Solomon used a combination of drugs and Dr. Orchard's therapy to manipulate and alter Elizabeth's memories — her childhood, the fire, you, always you. He beat her between times, I believe to weaken her spirit and make her more vulnerable to his words… Raymond, you know how this works."

Red nods slightly, only the smallest twitch of movement.

"He put images, thoughts, facts into her head. Some true. Some conjecture. Some fabricated. It doesn't really matter — with the state her mind was in, they are all cold, hard facts to her now. Along with the face that, to assuage her pain, to right the world again, she is convinced she must kill you…"

Red doesn't move again; his head, his hand, all still as death.

"You can't go anywhere near her, Raymond. Not just for your own safety, which I know you care for little enough. But for _her_ safety, her sanity, Raymond, you must stay away — for now, perhaps forever."

His hand still linked with Dembe's, robbed of any and all other means of expression, Red's lost and empty face grows damp with tears.

* * *

She sleeps restlessly, mind lost in memory; real, not real; old, new; all shaded with darkness and fear. He comes, as he always does, red everywhere, face hands shirt, even in name, reaching for her.

She whimpers, cries out; she jerks awake by force of will.

She doesn't want to see it all again.

"Keen?" Ressler's rugged face is leaning over her, shadowed and tired. "Liz. You okay?"

She laughs a little, rusty and bitter, ashes in her mouth.

"That's a loaded question," she answers, and gets a faint smile in return.

"Are you in pain?" he chooses quietly. "I can call a nurse for you."

She shakes her head with a grimace. "No, it's… it's tolerable. I'd rather not have any more drugs than I actually need at this point."

Ressler pats her shoulder awkwardly. "Understandable," he says gruffly. "And… otherwise? How're you holding up? With everything you told us…"

Her smile fades and her eyes go cold.

"It's all true," she replies evenly. "Reddington, he's evil, Ress. He's been manipulating my life since I was practically a baby. He's a liar, a thief, a killer — worse. What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," Ressler admits. He runs a hand over his hair absently. "But you can't just murder a man, Ke– Liz. You have to focus on getting better, on getting past what happened to–"

"Is that what _you_ would do?" she interrupts, the fire back in her eyes. "Just let it all go?"

He sighs and sits back in his chair unhappily. "I'd like to think I could," he answers softly. "But I'm not you, either. You're not this person, Liz. What's happened… it's terrible, but you can't let it change you, let it make you into someone else."

She looks at him, then, and laughs, even as her tears start to fall.

"But Ress," she manages, choking on it. "It's too late. I'm already changed."

* * *

Two days later, Red discharges himself — against medical advice, of course, but he can no longer stand lying in the flat, antiseptic bed.

His throat and neck still pain him abominably, and his head aches and throbs, but his concussion is under control and his mind is clear.

He hasn't seen Lizzie again; knows that she is still in the hospital, healing, talking to a therapist, seemingly improving. Dembe spends a great deal of time with her, listening — he has always been an excellent listener.

Red is glad, in a distant way, that she can have Dembe with her. He will keep her safe, as well as providing help to soothe her troubled mind.

These facts do not alleviate the empty hollow of loss carved deep within him.

It is a particular skill of Solomon's, to know just where to cut, to dismantle and destroy with the most accuracy and efficiency. And it is true that if Red had found her alone, as he was meant to, broken and bleeding, having her, of all people, _Lizzie_ , stealing away his life would have been a devastating end.

He can't help but think that the current state of affairs is much, much worse.

To have lost her like this, to have her visceral hatred burned into his bones, to see her embrace violence and rage. It leaves him shaken and sick, old and bereft, again and again. He can admit to himself, sitting alone in his one safe place, cat purring contentedly in his lap, that he had placed in her his own redemption.

Instead, he brought destruction to her door, as is his wont, like a disease, a typhoon, a toxin.

 _Perhaps_ , he thinks drearily, _Solomon's way would have been better after all_.


	7. Chapter 7

She clings to Dembe rather, over the following weeks of convalescence in the hospital. He carries with him an aura of calm assurance that soothes her ragged edges. More importantly, she thinks, he may be the only one left who can help her separate truth from fiction. His gentle kindness cools her rage; he paints her a picture of the Liz she once was, and helps her believe that one day, she might find that person again.

Ressler comes too, every day at first, then not so often. It seems that he doesn't know her that well, really, can't help her decide which of her thoughts are her own and which are Solomon's. When he tells her, reluctantly, of the death of the man she knew as Tom Keen, it hits her hard. She isn't sure why — she hated him, didn't she? Wasn't he just another wrong to pile at Reddington's feet?

Many of the tales Dembe weaves for her belie the ones that weigh heavily in her mind, which turns out to be both a comfort and a confusion. Rather than clarify, they begin to distort, leave her rootless, anchorless, lost. Adrift, her body broken and useless, her mind a trap that she cannot escape. The therapist they have assigned her is kind and thoughtful, but she doesn't have the training to deal with the destruction Solomon has wrought. She doesn't know which lies are real and which are false.

Over time, despite Dembe's even-handed presence and the affectionate bond that builds between them, despite the drug therapies they try, hoping to unlock the tangle of her mind, Liz begins to drown instead of float. The moment that her fractured leg is healed enough to limp on, that her arm begins to knit, she insists on being discharged.

She leaves with Dembe, who has his own instructions, who takes her to a peaceful apartment in Eckington that he tells her he chose himself. She decides to believe him, quietly ensuring that whatever arrangements had originally been, the FBI is now footing the bill.

It's a comfortable place, easy to move around in and take care of, even through her various stages of healing. She still sees Dembe almost every day — he ferries her around to her legions of appointments with doctors, psychiatrists, physiotherapists; he brings her groceries and cooks her dinner.

They talk and talk — not just of her trauma, of real and not real, but of books and film and art, of current events and politics. He mentions Reddington, now and again, when her anger has ebbed enough, as if he is trying to accustom her to the man's existence, to his indelible presence in her life.

She's not sure she'll ever be accustomed to it, not sure there are enough therapists or drugs in the world to erase the worm of vitriolic hatred lodged in her soul. Eventually, when her casts are gone and she is physically on an even keel, she decides. She can't live with Solomon whispering in her ear for the rest of her life, she _won't_.

"I need to see him," she says to Dembe one evening, as they share a plate of warm cookies he has made. "I need to hear the truth from him, if I am ever going to move on from this."

He looks at her for a long, weighty minute, evaluating, thinking.

"All right," he says quietly. "I will take you to him."

* * *

Red paces through his days again, time repeating itself as he searches for Solomon. If nothing else is left to him, he can at least offer Lizzie the solace of her tormentor's death. But leads fizzle and die in his hands; the man is even more of a ghost than Red himself, and it is maddening.

He barely sleeps, still hasn't really started eating again, even as his damaged throat heals. Tucked away in his cozy apartment, even this one place that has always been a sanctuary to him starts to close in, confine, smother.

He cannot see a way out of it, a way through the frustration, the anger, the loss. All he can see is Lizzie — the beautiful and strong, the curious and infuriating — broken and bleeding, shattered in both body and mind. Her failure to complete Solomon's program and take his own life is of no solace to him at all.

Dembe's daily reports are at first reassuring, then increasingly concerning, as all the doctors both the FBI and Red himself can muster cannot unlock the prison of her mind. He wonders, idly, as he sits, if she would have healed upon his death; if taking his life would have released her from Solomon's hold, like a hypnotist's code word. He wonders, in his bleaker moments, if he doesn't owe it to her to offer her the chance — if one of them, at least, shouldn't be able to go on with life in the best way possible.

He sits, at last, after weeks of fruitless hunting. He sits, as the sky begins to glow with setting colour, and puts it all aside as he waits for Dembe to come, puts it aside for just a few moments, in his own safe and quiet place.

* * *

He's not even that surprised when Dembe's heavy footsteps down the hall are followed by lighter padding that he almost recognizes. The two of them enter together and look at him; he looks at them, and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. He can't find any words inside him for what he feels, seeing her there at last.

"Raymond." Dembe's deep, quiet voice is familiar, safe. "She wanted to see you. I thought…I thought it might help you both."

"Thank you, Dembe," Red replies wearily. "Lizzie…" He pauses as he takes in her pale face, the new awkward, defensive way she holds herself. "You're looking much better."

She makes a sudden, urgent movement toward him, then stills, visibly reining herself in.

"I'm sorry, Dembe," she says quietly. "I promise, I'm not here to kill him. I'll try to… I just need some answers. I can't…" She sighs, resigned and unhappy. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry so, Elizabeth. If I didn't believe that, you wouldn't be here." Dembe kisses her gently on the forehead. He turns back to Red long enough to make eye contact; nods an affirmation.

"Be strong, now, little sister," he whispers to her as he turns away again; then he is gone, the door shut behind him with an unobtrusive _click_.

They stare at each other in silence, neither moving, hardly even breathing.

"Aren't you afraid to be alone with me?" she finally blurts out.

He raises a thoughtful eyebrow in reply. "Do I need to be? I've been told that you've been making progress."

She laughs a little, the sound so stingingly bitter that he thinks there should be a different word to describe it.

"Well, I'm not currently imagining ripping you apart with my bare hands — I _suppose_ you could call that progress."

He sighs heavily. "I suppose that you could." He gestures at a chair across from him in the corner of the room. "Will you sit, Lizzie?"

She ease across the room, never turning her back, watching him steadily. She perches gingerly on the edge of the chair, trying to control the tremors of her body.

"How are you?" he asks gently. "Really?"

She swallows, uncomfortable with his care; crosses and uncrosses her ankles restlessly.

"Physically, much better," she says. "My leg is almost as good as new, and most of the…lacerations are coming along nicely. My arm…" She looks down at it, and realizes she is rubbing compulsively at her scar and stills immediately. "The cast is off, but I'm still doing physiotherapy."

Red looks at her carefully, measuring. "And otherwise, sweetheart?" It slips out without thought, her familiar face such a balm, in spite of everything.

She draws in her breath sharply, jerking back in her seat as though he had struck her.

"Don't…don't call me that," she says sharply. "Just don't."

"I'm sorry, Lizzie," he answers, looking away from her and out the window. "Elizabeth. I've missed you…it's difficult for me to maintain a…distance."

"Well, you have to," she snaps. "I'm still not sure who you are, who you are to me, but I know that the fear, the hate, it goes bone deep. I need you to tell me what the truth is."

"Which truth would you like?" he asks mildly, still shaken, still not sure to do with this Liz who is not Liz.

She leaps up, angry, paces in front of him.

"Don't be flip! This is my life, my…my _mind_! I'm in pieces here, and it doesn't help your case when you treat it like a joke."

He recoils a little, but doesn't move otherwise, not a flicker.

"What is it exactly," he says, "that you want to know?"

"He told me things, S-Solomon, but it was more than that, he, he helped me to remember my past. And you were in it. You were _everywhere_ , all over my life!" She stops pacing to stand in front of him, legs brushing his knees. " _Why?_ Who am I to you?"

"Li– Elizabeth, Solomon lies, it's what he does. He–"

" _No._ Stop prevaricating, and give a straight answer for _once in your life_. I _saw_ it, right there in my own mind, my memories. My parents, dead; you with the gun. You and Sam, together. You, with T-Tom." She chokes on a sob, raging inwardly at her weakness. "You killed Sam. You came into my life like a tornado — you destroyed _everything I had_. _**Why**_?" She's screaming by the end, tears streaming down her face, fists clenched, anger coming off her in waves.

He looks up at her, helpless in the face of the barrage of questions and accusations, her sorrow, rage, confusion.

"Elizabeth, I–"

"He said," she interrupted, too angry to wait, to listen. "Just like Zamani — do you remember? — he said you were obsessed with me, have been, for _years_. I don't understand, help me understand, give it back to me!"

He wants to curl up with her and weep, weep until they are both empty and limp and exhausted enough to forget their losses.

"What?" he asks, a little desperately, needing to change the expression on her face to something else, _anything_ else. "Elizabeth, what do you want from me? I'll do anything, give you anything you need, anything to help you heal."

She collapses beside him, laughing, crying, a ragged mess.

" _Me_ ," she sobs, hating herself, hating him, the niggling worm inside her that wants him to hurt, to bleed, to suffer, getting stronger and louder again. " _Put me back together._ "

His heart stops, and he wants to be sick. "Oh, Lizzie," he says, reaching for her, unable to stop himself.

"Am I?" she asks, a little wildly, letting him touch her arms, her face. "Am I Lizzie? I don't even know anymore. Lizzie, Elizabeth, Agent Keen. I'm no one. I'm not even real anymore, made up of stories that may or may not be true."

The emptiness in her is too much for him to bear. His sorrow, anger, love, all well up and choke off his words, leaving him nothing but trembling hands on her arms, to soothe, to plead, to make amends.

"No," she says, slapping at him, angry and sad and teary and alone, so alone. "I need to be real, _real_."

Raging with the need to feel — something, _anything_ — to hurt, cause and effect, she fastens her mouth to his.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I had to bump this up to M, because things are going to get unpleasant here. Also, please note, this chapter has non-con sexual content—if that's a trigger, you might want to skip it. Hang in there, peeps…

* * *

The silence surrounding them is so heavy that it presses into her body, holds her down, locks her in place against him. He is so still, so unlike any, all, of her varied memories of him; she's not sure he's even breathing. His mouth under hers is soft and warm; he tastes of scotch and salt and exhaustion.

She pulls back, all the way to standing, panting, evaluating, and feels a curl of icy triumph deep within. His face is as still as the rest of him, impassive and guarded, but there, hidden at the back of his eyes, she sees it — a spark, heat, but also loss.

She can hurt him, after all, and maybe, _maybe_ , bring some feeling back to her own numb limbs, even if it's only hate and anger and pain. At least those things are human. At least she will be real, if only for a moment.

She runs a speculative hand down the soft cotton of his shirt, and because she's watching for it, she sees his eyes flash again.

"Lizzie," he says, so quietly she can't be sure he has spoken at all. "Elizabeth. Don't do this."

She appraises him coolly, careful to keep her inner turmoil tucked away within.

"I don't think I owe you any favours," she replies. "I think it's you that owes me."

He face twitches — it's hard for him, she thinks with satisfaction, to keep himself expressionless and still.

"And you think this is a good way to collect?"

She moves closer again, his right leg now tucked between hers, the warmth of his torso enveloping her like a warm bath. She pats his cheek, none too gently.

"You said you'd do anything," she reminds him, "just a minute ago."

"I didn't…" He can't build a sentence out of what he's feeling, he'd never imagined _this_ turn of events, never conceived that she would turn her loathing into something quite so vile.

"Are you trying to tell me you've never thought of it?" she asks, mockery staining her tone, her face. "That you don't want me?"

She reaches with her free hand and squeezes him roughly through his pants, finding, to her grim satisfaction, that he is already at least halfway there.

"I suppose my body betrays me," he answers, his tone at its driest, _don't let her see_. "You're a beautiful woman, Elizabeth, and it has been some time."

A flush of heat burns through her, but she doesn't take the time to examine why this rough dismissal angers and cuts.

" _No_ ," she hisses at him, " _no_ , you don't get to do that, _you_ don't get to turn me into nothing like he did."

And she takes his mouth again, fast and hard, fierce and unrelenting. She pushes into him angrily, forcing her tongue past his lips, darkly pleased by the brief reverberating pain as their teeth clash together. Any control she had left slips away as she grips his shoulders and pours every ounce of her weeks of rage and confusion and agony into him.

* * *

The earth has shifted on its axis.

The pain is worse than any bullet, knife, torture.

He feels the loss of something precious, something small and secret, a key piece of his own essence of self.

But he cannot bring himself to stop her — _it's ridiculous_ , he thinks unhappily. He could, easily, he is stronger and bigger and she is not even fully healed.

But he cannot.

Even this horror, this travesty, this grim parody of love is still her, still _Lizzie_. And through the biting hate, the metallic tang of blood already staining his mouth, her taste is still better than he has ever dreamed.

* * *

The ferocity of her aggressive need shocks her, somewhere in the back of her mind, but not enough to stop her assault.

His mouth is hot and a little sweet, but still beneath her own. His entire body is _eerily_ still, and stays that way as she straddles his lap and sits, pressing against him.

Stays that way as she rips at his fine shirt and tears it away, scraping at his skin, digging, clawing, gripping.

She nips determinedly at his tongue, his lips, tasting blood, reveling in it. Gasping, she moves to his throat and bites down on the scar that marks him as hers. Nothing, only a slightly sharper intake of breath.

Frustrated, seething, she stands again, looking him over through narrowed eyes. She's left a trail of reddish marks from teeth and nails, and he isn't as immune as he'd like her to think — she can see it in his eyes, the clench of his fists, in the tent of his pants.

For one frozen moment, she doesn't know if wants to scream, or throw something, or just curl up at his feet and weep, weep until she is empty.

Instead, she methodically strips off her clothes and meets his eyes again defiantly.

A malevolent heat surges in her when she sees his pupils darken and his lips part, shiny and wet with blood.

She steps into him again, fumbling for his belt.

* * *

It takes very little effort to remain still through her initial onslaught, his limbs weighed down with the grief of responsibility. Her fevered mouth and devouring hands encompass him, firing his senses even as his mind rebels and cowers.

Now, oh now, she stands nude before him, an exquisite tragedy of porcelain skin and still-healing wounds, the worst of them — and how bad must they have been, to remain unhealed after so many weeks? — still covered in clean white gauze.

Now, oh now, he sees it, just over her heart — the red and swollen lines of a jagged "R", written into her skin with the blade of a knife; Lizzie, branded. For one horrible moment, he thinks he might vomit.

So this, then, is to be his punishment for the multitude of ways in which he has failed her; if it isn't what he expected, he will still endure it.

Now, he will pay the price for his crimes, and it is bitter as ashes in his mouth.

* * *

He lets her unbuckle his belt and open his pants; lifts his body so she can wriggle slacks and boxers together past his hips, yank them over his knees, let them drop to the floor.

He swells further under her hands instinctively; she handles him firmly, if a bit roughly, as she perches back on his knees, bracing herself against his shoulder with her free hand.

He breathes out her name, once, _Elizabeth_ , and his voice is such a tangled mixture of unhappiness, arousal, and regret that it almost makes her pause. But then he sighs in resignation and puts his hands on her hips.

His touch, warm and soft, electrifies her, fires the fight-or-flight instinct in her brain, still so convinced he is the enemy. She gasps as her body floods with adrenaline, shudders with it as she moves over him, rubs against him, crushes her mouth to his again in savage desperation.

He rubs at her skin a little to soothe, to settle her, and that's no good — she doesn't want soothing, she wants to lash, cut, break, destroy. Pushing up with her toes, she shifts closer still, and moving a hand to position him, engulfs him with a quick, angry shove that stings and pulls and tears.

She's not ready, not aroused, but she doesn't care — she's used to pain, she welcomes it now as his fingers tighten on her involuntarily. But that's all he gives, he doesn't move or respond, not even a flicker of lips or tongue, and it fuels her rage. She sets a hard, punishing rhythm as she attacks his mouth again, nails digging viciously into his back as she moves, as friction starts to do its work and ease the way.

"Do something," she demands finally, pulling away from his mouth. "Stop me, fight me. Kiss me. Fuck me. _Do something_."

Then she slaps him across the face as hard as she can. Like a man awakened from a dream, a nightmare, his face comes alert. He still looks sad, a little angry himself, but determined now too, and he slides a hand into her hair and yanks her in for a kiss. His other hand strong on her back, he presses her into him as he begins to pump his hips in short little jerks under her.

They are both sweaty now, tongues tangled, hands gripping, pulling, bruising in their intensity. She tips suddenly; it catches her unaware, unexpected, and she pulls away from him to cry out. He looks at her face — her blue eyes cloudy and grey; her clean, strong lines fixed in furious passion — and falls right after her, coming in a hot, steady stream that shocks him.

He hates himself even more than he thought possible, as she slows, stops; as she collapses into him, wrung out and damp, her clammy cheek resting on his shoulder.

He hates himself for letting his arms wrap around her and pull her into him; for closing his eyes and pretending, just for a moment, that this has been an act of love.


	9. Chapter 9

He sits, still, on his sofa, naked and cold, hands loose at his sides and his head tipped back, eyes closed. Down the hall, his shower is running. It had taken less than a minute — a few precious moments all he had to hold her tight and pretend — for her to collect herself and wrench away from him as if he burned.

Standing in a jerky, disjointed movement, she'd looked at him with cool, empty eyes.

"I'm using your shower now," she'd said flatly. "You can wait." And she'd picked up her discarded clothes and stalked away.

And so he sits, seeing no point in moving now, even if he could summon the strength. He feels as empty as she had looked, as if, somehow, the essence of himself has been scooped messily out and discarded.

Is this how she feels, all the time? Hollow, scoured raw but not clean, left with nothing but a swell of hate and anger?

 _No wonder she wants me dead_ , he thinks lethargically, for if Solomon appeared before him now, the engineer of this madness, Red would tear him to shreds with his bare hands.

Images return, despite his efforts to shut off his mind, unbidden, unwelcome.

Of her ethereal loveliness forever damaged, marked and scarred, fucking _monogrammed_ so that she could never forget that it was Red who was responsible for her ruin.

Of the cruelty on her pretty face as she stripped him bare.

Of the revulsion that ran through her entire being as she'd ripped herself from him with a fervent urgency and a hideous sound.

Nausea rises again and he lowers his head, breathing deep to dispel it. But now, now he's looking at himself, his cold cock curled against his thigh, sticky with sordid remains and what looks like blood, what must be _her_ _blood_ , and he loses the battle.

He staggers up and around the corner and throws himself at the kitchen sink, retching helplessly into it long after his stomach is empty.

* * *

She washes methodically, the water as hot as she can stand it, as is her habit now. She easily ignores the sting of the soap in her open cuts and abrasions, careful only to remove every trace of Reddington that she can.

Her mind is finally, _finally_ , completely empty of the screaming chorus of memory and misgiving, as if her overt act of aggression has triggered a switch. She is nearly limp from the lack of tension in her body, coiled tight for so very long that she'd forgotten how a person was supposed to feel. She stretches and cracks her neck, satisfied with her success.

Her shower is quick — she no longer particularly savours these small pleasures — so she's already yanking her clothes on when she hears the unmistakable noises of sick misery coming down the hall. Somewhere deep inside, a small corner of her that is still sane, a little lonesome Lizzie that she wouldn't have guessed was there, suffers a hard pang of guilt, regret, sadness.

She quashes it ruthlessly — if he's miserable, good; if he now understands even the tiniest part of her suffering, _good_. Maybe now, he'll be prepared to answer to her. Because if the voices in her head get any louder, she will be completely lost to herself, and any slim chance she has at any kind of life will disappear.

She walks down the hall and sees him in the kitchen, curled over the sink, his head pressed to the stainless steel apron as if the cold metal provided some kind of relief. She catalogues with no particular interest the mass of scar tissue stretching across the upper left side of his back, over his shoulder. Notices absently that he is scratched and bleeding lightly in a few places, that shadows of bruising are just starting to emerge on his shoulders and hips.

"Your turn," she announces to his curved back, her inflection-free voice harsh in the quiet room. "And then we'll talk."

He coughs once, then straightens slowly, movements the stiff, pained ones of a much older man. He turns on the water in the sink and starts a disposal; after a minute, he flicks them both off again, then turns and walks out without looking at her.

She hears the bathroom door click shut quietly, then walks back into the living room to sit in the armchair and wait.

* * *

It's not until he's in the shower that he notices he is bleeding — from the scar on his neck, opened painfully; a bite mark on his chest; what the sting of the water tells him are at least two or three places on his back. He mentally shrugs it off as unimportant, the physical pain not really registering.

He washes slowly, gulping down water straight from the shower head, knowing none of it will make any difference to the hollow inside. He can accept it as his due, he really can — the crimes that are his too numerous to count, his failures on her behalf the worst of atrocities. Still, he hadn't imagined his punishment hurting quite this way.

With some effort, he gathers himself and puts it all away; rubs himself dry quickly, ignoring his seeping wounds; brushes his teeth twice to erase the taste of bile and blood. He does allow himself the small comfort of a soft tee and an ancient pair of sweats from his Navy days, with his thick hoodie to combat the chill that has settled in his bones.

Then he pads out to face her again, if he can.

* * *

Her eyes are closed when he reenters the room, her body curled limp and relaxed into his armchair, and he wonders if she has fallen asleep. But the floor creaks as he moves, and she stiffens and jerks, her eyes flying open, wary like a wild animal. He's almost accustomed now to the seething hate that flashes across her face before she shuts down — she didn't move or flinch this time, and he'll count that as progress.

She watches him as he pauses by the couch; he thinks he managed to hide his wince as he passes it and pulls out his desk chair instead.

"That doesn't look so comfortable," she comments, testing.

"It will suffice for the time being," he answers stiffly, not wanting to rise to her bait, to give anything away. "I believe you were looking for some clarity?"

She looks at him somberly. "Will you tell me the truth?"

"I will," he says, without hesitation, making her think she might believe it. "I don't lie to you, Elizabeth."

She nods slowly, but he can see the uncertainty in her eyes.

"Would you feel better if Dembe was here, to confirm what he can? He wasn't with me when you were small, but he was for much of your life with Sam."

She considers this, then nods. If Dembe confirms what Red has to say about her later life, perhaps she can accept what he says about her beginnings.

He has to fetch his phone from his slacks, still in a pile on the floor, and his voice when he speaks briefly to Dembe sounds strange even to himself.

"He'll be here shortly," he says as he flips the phone shut. "Shall we begin with the fire, while we wait?"

He'd already decided that there was no point keeping secrets any longer. Whatever there was in her past that might hurt or endanger her was far less damaging that what had already been done.

"All right," she says slowly. "How do…should I just tell you what he told me, what he helped me remember?"

"That seems as good a start as any. But I wouldn't call it help, myself."

"I'm sure _you_ wouldn't," she replies coldly. "But _I_ might. Together, Solomon and Dr Orchard used drugs and some kind of hypnosis to take me into the past, into my memories. The night of the fire — my earliest memory — you were there. True?"

He nods cautiously. "True."

"You shot my parents and abducted me," she continues, her voice shaking and angry. "T-True?"

"No," he says emphatically, maintaining a calm façade with some effort. " _Not_ true. I was there, yes. I had been working with your mother — she was a former KGB agent who defected to America shortly after you were born. She had some very legitimate concerns about your safety. Your father was…a dangerous man.

"That night, he finally caught up to her; I still don't know how he found her, after three years…" He shakes his head and shrugs. "I suppose it doesn't matter. He came for you both that night. I was already on my way there — we had a meet — but when I approached the house, the door was broken open and there was fighting everywhere. Your father's men against Katya's guards all over the house; the fire started in the kitchen when a stray bullet hit the gas line."

Her eyes were wide and frightened, she panted for breath, her face damp with sweat; listening to him put her right back into the dark places in her mind, as if they had just been waiting there for the chance to pounce. The scene he painted was vivid and flickering as if already in flames; she could _see_ her parents arguing in front of her before he even said the words.

"Your parents were having a terrible argument in the front room — you were watching them, so frightened, crying. And you'd picked up your father's gun."

She shakes her head frantically. "No," she says, "that's not… _No_! How could you…"

But she can't throw his words back in his face now, not now, when she can _see_ it happening in front of her, her head throbbing in vivid agony as her memory rights itself in her clouded vision, Solomon's deceptions melting away.

"It was me," she says quietly, resigned, eyes damp. "I shot my father. True or not true?"

"True," he says heavily, face creased in unhappy lines. "You were barely more than a baby; it wasn't your fault. You were trying to protect your mother."

"What about my mother?" she demands quickly. "If I killed my father and she was still alive…"

He's already shaking his head as she says the words, and now her tears run in earnest. "I'm so sorry, Elizabeth. She screamed at me to grab you and run and went into the house for something…Just as I approached the front door, something fell, a beam, something."

"No," she breathes again, the pain in her head and within her battling angrily.

He looks at her; takes a breath. "I know you saw my back in the kitchen earlier. That's what I carry, from that night, as well as memories."

She drops her head; wraps her arms around herself, holding herself together.

"I'm still not sure how I got out with you. You woke me, screaming…I think you saved us both," he continues bleakly. "Your mother was nowhere to be seen, and we couldn't stay there. Sam took us both in, and you never left.

"What I told you before about your mother was true — I learned later that she took her own life shortly after that night.

"This is what I know to be true."

* * *

When Dembe enters the apartment that night, it's dark in the room, no one having bothered to flick a light on once the last of the sun disappeared. He calls out, switching on a lamp by the door, but he cuts off abruptly as the pair comes into view.

Liz, her hair still shower-damp, silent tears running down her face as she stares out the window.

Red, pale and drawn, the shadow of a bruise on one cheek, blood congealing on his neck, a hollow resignation hanging around him in a miasma of unhappiness.

Dembe turns to Liz, his face as inscrutable as ever. "I'll take you home, Elizabeth."

'What?" she says, startled, looking up wildly, finding it difficult to focus on his face. "I'm not ready; we've only barely got started! I thought…I thought you were going to help."

"It looks to me like you've both had enough for one day," he returns firmly. "You need to come with me now."

"I–" she starts again, but shuts up when she finally gets a good look at Dembe's shuttered face.

She gets up and walks to the door without another word, without looking at Red, giving nothing.

"I'll be back in a bit," Dembe says to Red in a softer tone. "I'll make us dinner."

Red nods silently; watches them leave together.

When the door shuts, when their footsteps fade completely, when an empty silence wraps around him like a blanket.

Then, only then, does he allow his anguish to surface and take him under.

* * *

The trip back to her apartment is quiet, but this isn't unusual, and Liz is too relaxed to notice that it is much heavier than usual. Since the sharp pain of recall had left her head, she has been as limp as a kitten in the sun.

Dembe sees her to the door, as usual, but stops in the entry.

"I'm not staying tonight," he says quietly. "Raymond needs me more."

She shifts her gaze, faintly guilty again, and then resentful.

"That's fine," she says, a little sullenly, but still too unwound to summon much of a response. "I'll probably just go to sleep anyway."

He nods and turns away; hesitates briefly, and turns back, placing his warm hands gently on her shoulders.

"Think carefully, Elizabeth," he says gently. "Think carefully about about who it is that you want controlling your actions, before you have cause to act again."

* * *

He has collected himself by the time Dembe returns; has gathered all his brittle little pieces and tucked them away. He has neatened the living area, tossed his pile of clothing into the garbage chute in the hall, and is calmly brewing tea when Dembe arrives.

The younger man cleans his various wounds with his customary deft skill, saying nothing, but humming a little as he works, his easy expression unchanging. Red thinks that he has never appreciated this true friendship more.

Dembe makes grilled cheese sandwiches, which makes him laugh a little, and they eat in a companionable silence, truly at home in each other's company. Only when the meal is finished and the kitchen tidy, when they sit together with glasses of fine Scotch, does Dembe's face change.

"Raymond," he says, quietly intense, "why?"

Red looks into his drink, swirling it gently as if searching for answers in the depths of the amber liquid.

"Whatever she needs, he answers finally. "It's what I promised her; it's what I owe."

Dembe frowns, uneasy. "Do you really think allowing her to exercise Solomon's darkness will help her to heal?"

"Perhaps she can give the darkness to me to carry," Red murmurs, his eyes cloudy, "and walk free in the light again."


	10. Chapter 10

She wakes early — too early, deep lavender just starting to smudge the sky, dark and cold. She is stiff and aching, as if with fever, the previous night's relief vanished with her restless sleep. Her skin feels tight, muscles shifting beneath like sinuous creatures crawling, questing. Voices ricochet within, competing for her attention — Reddington's, Solomon's, Dembe's, even, at the very back of her mind, her own, small and piteous.

It's a cacophony, a rage that builds, gathering, coiling, readying itself to spring. It grows and grows as she tosses, until her entire being is shrieking for release. Without rational thought, she is up and moving, out the door and into a cab in a blind panic, aimed like a homing pigeon.

* * *

He isn't sleeping — can't, won't — lying still and staring on his bed, cat curled warm and comforting at his side. The quiet knock still comes as enough of a surprise that he jumps, though, chasing the cat from from its sanctuary and quickening his pulse.

It's both unexpected and somehow predictable to see her at his door, ragged around her edges, in pyjamas and bare feet, pulling at the sleeves of a thin, holey sweater, her gaze darting everywhere, anywhere but his face. The pallor of her skin is stark against the purple shadows of her face, the navy of her shirt; she is nearly vibrating with the tension that has her in its grip, that pushes out from her to prod at him insistently.

"Elizabeth," he says with a weary caution. "It's a bit early for calls, isn't it?"

She looks at him then, finally, her eyes dark with confusion and misery rather than fear and loathing, reaching out a shaky hand. He takes it automatically, and is shocked by the chill of her skin, wincing slightly as her nails dig into the side of his palm.

"Elizabeth?" he says again, grief tugging at him deep within, revived by her anguish-wracked form.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her voice a whisper, her gaze breaking away.

He hesitates ever so slightly, then turns to give her room to pass by him into the apartment; she clings to his hand as she moves. He twists to shut the door behind her, then is surprised again when she steps in close, shaking form crowding him him against the wood of the door.

* * *

The drive had been a blur — she has no firm idea of hailing a cab, of how long the trip took, or even how much money she had tossed at the driver. Only when his door swung open did the world come back into focus, the predator within snarling in anticipation, the scraps of humanity scrambling for the safety he represented.

The cold disdain that drove her had disappeared, her anger and hatred chased out by this clenching, consuming need. The sight of his utterly familiar face; his warm, spicy scent; his richly timbred voice — it's all a balm to her tortured system, sensory signals that ease the terrible tension and confirm that this is where she needs to be. For good or ill, she can't bring herself to care.

The heat of his hand around hers seems scorching, the icy, bone-deep cold within her delighting in it, wanting more. She pushes into him eagerly, welcoming the huff of expelled air as his body thuds against the door, caught off guard; relishing the twinge of pain as her head raps his chin smartly.

"Elizabeth," he says for a third time, and his voice is more cautious than ever — it makes her impatient.

She speaks into his chest, not wanting to look at him, to expose her weakness, as she tries to explain what she doesn't really understand.

"I need…to be here," she says reluctantly. "Even if… I _won't_ do what he wants," she continues, suddenly fierce, "I won't give him that last part of me. But…" She trails off, unsure of what to say next.

He tugs his hand free of hers to take her shoulders and push her back gently, so he can see her face; she drops her eyes, unwilling to have him see too much, to leave herself vulnerable.

"You were weeks without me in the hospital and in rehab," he points out sensibly. "I'd think it would be easier to overcome the conditioning if you continued to stay away from me as much as possible."

"It was," she admits, "before yesterday. I think…what happened… I just…" She gives up, unwilling or unable to articulate her need. She meets his eyes again, wretched, hating them both, jittering against him like an addict in search of a fix. "Help me. Please."

And she reaches out to pull at him more literally, to twist her nervous fingers into his soft tee and wait.

* * *

Her voice has been quiet, furtive, that of a confessor that dares not speak her sins aloud. Her simple, quiet plea tears at him, even as he watches her trying to hide the strange mix of desperation and exultation that ripples over her features as she speaks.

He takes a long moment, needing it, wondering if Solomon had any idea of the damage he had wrought, of the extent of his twisted wickedness — or if he had just romped through her brain like it was plaything, heedless of the wreckage.

 _Anything she needs_ , he reminds himself yet again, _that's what you owe._

Afraid he won't be able to keep his devastation from his tone, from leaching out to infect her further, he gently untangles her fingers and leads her away from the door, down the hall, wishing there were some way to protect himself from what would come.

He wonders if he'll ever be able to look in a mirror again.

* * *

She's showering when his cell rings, the air emanating from the bathroom so hot he imagines the water must be near boiling. He glances at the display, intending to let the call go, but it's Dembe, so he answers instead, making sure his voice gives nothing away.

"Raymond." Dembe's voice is uncharacteristically anxious and tight. "Elizabeth is gone, and her door was left unlocked. Have you heard from her?"

"She's here," he assures quickly. "She's safe here with me. Could you make sure everything is all right inside, and lock up before you head over? Oh," he adds in hesitant afterthought, "pack her a bag, would you? I believe she'll be staying here for a time."

There is a brief pause, heavy with unspoken words, before Dembe answers.

"Of course, Raymond," he says simply. "I'll be there soon."

He ends the call and closes his eyes against the prickle of emotion that threatens.

* * *

She's rummaging for bandages in the bathroom cupboard when he knocks lightly and swings the door open. She flushes a little, straightening quickly, and the corner of his mouth tips up.

"First aid kit is on the right-hand side, Elizabeth," he says politely. "When you're done, if you wouldn't mind…" He gestures at the side of his neck, gauze pad long gone and scar oozing blood again. She remembers tearing at it desperately, and her flush deepens.

"Of course," she mutters, looking away as he steps into the vacated shower.

She cleans herself up and escapes as quickly as possible from the small room, the shared tasks creating an air of intimacy that she doesn't want, that threatens to choke her. It's only when she's naked in his bedroom that she realizes she has no clothes. She considers taking something of his, but recognizes that being surrounded by his scent like that runs the risk of firing the rage in a way she won't be able to stop. She shrugs back into her pyjamas philosophically enough — at least she'll be comfortable.

She's ready for him when he exits the shower — he takes no time at all, bathing quickly, even perfunctorily, as if used to maintaining a schedule — composed and clear eyed. He says nothing as she watches himself dry off briskly, prepare for the day. The scents that waft through the air are familiar, help keep the edginess down.

She tends to him efficiently, not exactly gently, but without aggression. She pays careful attention to the seeping wound on his neck, thinking absently that it is important to keep it clear of bacteria, trying _not_ to think about the scent of his blood.

When she finishes, he thanks her quietly and leaves the room. She tidies up and wanders out into the living room — and encounters the cat for the first time, sunning itself lazily on the desk by the window.

This small domesticity, the sign of a need in Reddington that she had long denied recognizing in him — the simple need for companionship, affection, to have something to care for — touches her, helps to wear away the anger and hate a little more, a little more.

* * *

When Dembe arrives, they are drinking coffee in relatively comfortable silence, cat purring ecstatically in Reddington's lap. As usual, he gives away nothing of what he thinks, merely ensures that Liz sees the bag in his hand, then places it gently on the floor and walks into the kitchen for a mug of his own.

When the three of them are together again, Red sits up a little straighter, shooing the cat away gently.

"So," he says smoothly, "I expect you have more questions, do you, Elizabeth?"

She nods, pleased by his matter-of-fact attitude. She is more than eager for further clarification, for the ease to the pain and clamour, that last night's revelations had given.

"The fire," she says. "You took me…saved me from it. And handed me off to Sam?"

He nods. "That's right. Sam and I were old friends — we grew up together. I couldn't trust anyone in my official circles, and I wanted you to be safe. I knew I could count on Sam."

"And he just…took me in? Just like that? On your say so?" She forces out the last thing, brittle and sharp, the one that has wriggled and stung at the bottom of her heart since Solomon whispered it into her ear. "You paid him to take me. You sold me to him."

He was already shaking his head before she finished speaking. "No, Elizabeth, never. At least, not the way that you mean," he says firmly. "You knew him, didn't you? Sam had a big, generous heart and a kind soul. You needed him, so he gave you a home. For him, it was that simple."

A little of her pain subsides at his words; she can see the truth in his clear, earnest eyes; feel it in her poignant memories of her father.

"I can't believe there was never any money," she says, testing, prodding at it like a sore tooth.

He looks at her carefully, evaluating. "I stayed in touch with Sam," he answers quietly. "I…needed to keep an eye on you; ensure your welfare. It was… You mattered to me. I gave Sam some money, a few times. To help with your education, mainly. We both wanted the best for you."

She struggles internally — there's no flash of clarity like there had been last night. The knowledge is too nebulous, she has no direct connection, no event to tie the information to, no possible way to confirm or deny his claims.

She glances at Dembe, and he nods gravely.

 _It all comes down to trust,_ she thinks unhappily. _And I just don't know. How can I?_

"All right," she says aloud, her voice sounding stubbornly unconvinced. "That follows, I suppose."

"Good," Red says gently, "I never want you to doubt Sam's love for you, Elizabeth."

Dembe reaches over and squeezes her hand. "It's a good beginning, Elizabeth," he affirms.

She feels a pleased warm tingle at their approval, then her mind rebels angrily. She doesn't need _their_ approval, they should be seeking _hers_ — _she_ is the victim here.

"Okay," she says, trying for an even tone. "Then which one of you wants to tell me about Tom Keen?"


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** ::sidles in, throwing apologetic and hopeful side eyes:: Hi, folks! Gosh, it's been a long time. RL has been a BEAR this winter, and I have to say, I let the show get to me. But I decided recently that if the showrunners were going to ruin the show, I shouldn't let them take writing too. So here I am, hat in hand (fedora, natch), hoping a few will still want to find out what happens to our fav pair in this little tale.

* * *

 _Which one of you wants to tell me about Tom Keen?_

Red and Dembe share a long look; Red a picture of unwillingness that bordered on distaste, Dembe a mask of grim severity. Red breaks first, looking out the window at the sun. Then he sighs, and looks her dead in her fathomless blue eyes.

"Yes," he says, simply, harshly. "It was me, in the beginning. I hired the man who became Tom Keen. I paid him to enter your life."

He turns back to the window quickly, his soul feeling heavy and cold, preferring not to see the way her face changed.

It takes a moment for her to reply, and he can only imagine the twist of pain his betrayal has caused.

"I didn't want to believe it," she says, her voice splintery, all sharp edges. "Out of all the horrible things he told me, the one thing…" She takes a shuddering breath. "So, what?" And the bitter anger and hate is back, poisoning her tone. "You picked a father for me, and it turned out okay, so you thought you'd pick a husband, too? Like some kind of…twisted handler? Like a _pimp_?"

His head whips back around at that, but Dembe is already speaking.

"Elizabeth, _no_ ," he is saying emphatically, as Red's head and stomach both roil viciously. " _Never that_. Raymond is at heart a good man, a man who has cared for you and watched over you your entire life. This man, this operative, was to watch you, only, to stay on the periphery of your life and watch, so we could know you were safe, happy. It was Berlin who paid to flip him, to get closer to you, to get to Raymond."

She looks carefully at Dembe's face, this mess of new thoughts battling the messages her brain still, always, insidiously whisper in Reddington's presence, to attack, to hurt, to kill. _Liar_ , they name him, hammering at her — but this cannot be right, because Dembe, Dembe is a friend she can trust, and anyway, who would tell such a tale to win favour, as a better alternative to the truth?

The two men watch the chaos chasing across her face and wait.

"That…that's just ridiculous enough to be true," she finally says flatly. "So, you didn't murder my family, but you _have_ been… _stalking_ me since I was a small child."

"I wouldn't put it quite that way," Red says drily, forcing himself to breathe evenly, to keep a calm and emotionless façade. "If I am to be utterly honest, I suppose it's true that your safety, your life and happiness, became something of an obsession for me.

"There are still those…interested in the child you were."

The pain in her head is abominable — the unbearable pressure of her own thoughts straining to be heard against the background of the war between Solomon's sly assertions and Red's frank admissions…it would all end up driving her insane.

She breathes deeply, curled into herself with her arms wrapped around her legs and her eyes closed. She focuses on trying to make a balance, trying to make it all work inside her head. She picks a single thought, the way her therapist has advised — now that she knows the truth, she can move on, move on to what's next — and uses that to quiet the riot of noise within.

Gradually, ever so slowly, it all subsides to a comparatively peaceful hum, low enough to ignore, at which point she notices the soothing coolness of a damp cloth against her face and a warm arm around her shoulders.

She leans into the nearby body gratefully, the pain easing, only realizing who is next to her when she inhales deeply on a long sigh.

Ingrained reflex has her jerking away, the snarl back to prowl beneath her skin, to try and deny her the hard-won peace. She senses more than hears his own sigh; she stands to pace the room as if it was what she intended all along, wondering at the impulse for kindness.

"So," she says, needing to make things clear, fingers flexing as she moves. "Your version is that you've been…a benefactor? A positive force in my life rather than its destruction?"

"Things are rarely so simple," he replies heavily. "I certainly hold to the claim that I _meant_ only the best, that my presence in your life has always had good intentions. I realize…I realize that I failed in this effort on more than one occasion."

She stops pacing so that she can look at him. It all lines up — everything they have all been telling her; the weariness in his face, the earnestness; his willingness to share the burden of her rage and dysfunction. The whispers within quiet, leaving her empty and light.

"Okay," she says. "I believe you."

Reddington raises foggy grey eyes to look at her with something approaching hope. She attempts a smile, but realizes it isn't worth much.

"It makes more sense, anyway, than you as some kind of evil puppetmaster trying to destroy me."

He laughs at that, but there's no real amusement in it.

"Maybe so. But it's also undeniable that I've brought more evil to your life than good."

She sits beside him again, careful not to be too close.

"Then you still owe me," she says firmly. "You need to help me find him, and end this once and for all."

"That," he answers grimly, "is a bargain I have no problem making."

* * *

She roams the apartment restlessly, as tense and unhappy out of his presence as she is in it. He and Dembe left together almost two hours before, on an errand he did not share. Her head is quieter now, enough so that it's hard for her to understand her previous driving need, her rush to this sanctuary of her enemy-notenemy.

As she thinks it over, though, she can remember how her senses had all welcomed the sight/sound/smell of him with relief; how even the predator that lives inside her now had ceased to complain with the potential of his nearness. Remembering, she starts to feel jittery again, and rubs her hands up and down her arms briskly, trying to shake it off.

She picks things up and puts them down again — little glimpses into who Reddington might really be, behind the armour of his dashing criminal persona. She stops suddenly in front of a bookshelf, caught by a photograph, a framed picture of a woman and a little girl.

Her heart pounds painfully, reverberating in her skull as she stares at the photo, trying to make out the features of the woman behind the burst of light that obscures her face. Her mind scrabbles desperately as she recognizes herself in the little girl and her bright smile. Reddington's cat rubs winsomely against her legs, unheeded, as she stand and stares, her thoughts back in a raucous tumult as she grazes the glass with a fingertip.

Has he lied to her, then, despite his promises? Was Solomon right about him, after all?

Anger burns through her, thick and hot and choking. She fights to breathe through it, strives for more careful thought.

 _He told you he knew her, and you_ , she thinks to herself. _That he knew you as a child, that he kept tabs on you. This is just…a keepsake._

And the heat of her anger ebbs into a quieter warmth, at the evidence of a truth — that he cares for her, that he has done so for many years. That he has always troubled to make her a part of his life, his _real_ life.

She scoops up the cat to rub her cheek along its soft fur, peaceful.

* * *

When he arrives home, tired but pleased with the results of his meeting, he is greeted by the sight of her curled on the couch, asleep. His cat perches smugly on her hip, purring loudly enough that he can hear it from the doorway.

Something clutches deep within him, wanting this, _wanting this_ to be his reality with a ferocity that surprises him. He yearns — to tuck the loose strands of hair behind her ear, to crouch down to cup her face in his hands, to kiss her…

He laughs softly at himself, the sound bitter in his mouth. He moves into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, finding his way to firmer ground through the familiar movements. By the time the tea is ready, hot and dark in two steaming mugs, he is Reddington again. When he looks up, she's standing in the doorway, eyes still blurry, her body relaxed.

She offers him a sleepy half-smile, and despite his determination to stay detached and in control, it pleases him — so much that he despises himself just a little bit more.

"I had a good afternoon," he says, satisfied with the evenness of his tone. "You and I have a meeting tomorrow with a man who should be able to give us the goods on Solomon."

Her face darkens and she nods sharply, taking a mug from him and wrapping her hands around it like she needs its warmth.

"Good," she says, her voice cold and hard. "That's good."

And they stand in his kitchen, drinking tea in what could be perceived as a companionable fashion; in a silence that feels, almost, _almost_ , like home.


	12. Chapter 12

She is choking, suffocating, drowning.

Water is everywhere, flooding her awareness — mouth, throat, nose, even her thoughts. She cannot see or breathe or move; she tries to scream and only gurgles and hacks. Her wrists are bound together; there's a heavy weight on her chest.

A voice, above, yelling — it's Braxton, _where is it, where?_

She would tell him, if she could — would do anything at all to breathe again through the thick, smothering wet.

Then, like a finger snap, her face is clear again and she trembles in relief; bends over, dizzy and nauseated. The relief is only temporary, though, as she catches her breath and becomes aware of her surroundings. She can see, but there's only darkness; can breathe, but there's only the hot, metallic taste of blood; she's alone in the terrible, oppressive black, until…

A voice in her ear, whispering — it's Solomon, so close she can feel his hot breath on her cheek, _you know what you have to do…_

And she does.

* * *

She wakes with a jerk, gasping for breath she doesn't really need, shaking and weak-limbed and wet — soaked with sweat and tangled in a blanket not her own.

It takes several panicky moments to remember where she is — sprawled alone in Reddington's bed, sleeping in the sanctuary of the enemy. The darkness of the dream lingers, clings to her skin, coats her inside and out. She clambers messily upright, unsteady, unsure, sick; the last whispered words hovering in her subconscious, weaving tendrils through her tired mind.

She grasps at them, finding a purpose within them that helps her recover her footing, that drives her, prowling, to the kitchen to rummage in the dark. When she has what she needs, the small weight a solid comfort in her hand, she feels a calm focus settle over her and the nagging fear of her dream dissipates.

She moves quietly, smoothly through the darkness — it doesn't bother her anymore, she is part of it, now. She finds him in a small second bedroom, sleeping quiet and still on a narrow bed. He looks so different in sleep, the vivid animation gone from his features, his limbs limp and mouth slack.

His eyelashes are long enough to brush the curve of his cheeks, pretty and blond; he is as vulnerable as a child, and she wonders at his trust in her. She thinks, absently, that he should have locked his door.

The light from outside the window glints and flashes as she raises the carving knife before her face. She presses the cool flat of the blade to her cheek as she watches him breathe, centering herself.

In and out, in and out, until her mind is silent with a decision made.

* * *

He wakes to a sharp tang in the air, bitter, strong, and horribly familiar.

The constant companion his fear has become sharpens, and he forces his eyes open only out of reluctant necessity. At first, he can't see anything, but then a small whimper draws his attention to the floor beside the bed as his vision adjusts.

She huddles cross legged on the rug, damp dark hair covering her features, rocking slightly back and forth in a repetitive and disturbing way.

"Elizabeth?" His voice is raspy with sleep, but as gentle as he can make it.

Her head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and his heart skips painfully in his chest.

The front of her white t-shirt is stained with dark splotches, the blade of one of his kitchen knives clutched between her hands so tightly that her knuckles are white and hard. Her eyes glisten as she looks up at him, but to his shock, her face is cool and serene.

"I did it," she says, her voice tight with pain, yet bright with pleasure.

"Did _what_?" he replies, striving for calm, slipping down onto the floor to take her clenched hands in his, incredulous and afraid.

"I dreamt…" She falters a bit, then goes on. "His voice was still in my head when I woke up, as strong as ever, as real as…but I didn't do it, I fought back. I didn't hurt you," and she is as satisfied as his cat.

For possibly the first time in his life, he cannot think of a single word to say.

Instead, he bends his head and coaxes her fingers loose, letting the knife clatter to the floor so he can examine her palms in the dim light. Broad slices rip across both hands, a slow ooze of blood smeared from fingers to wrist. Her skin is icy, and he is afraid to ask her long she has been sitting there, waging her silent battle, clutching the knife in stubborn defiance.

"These need stitches," he says quietly, instead. "Come to the bathroom and we'll get you cleaned up."

He wraps an arm around her back to help her up without hurting her, and this time, she doesn't flinch away but leans into his warmth.

"Can you do it?" she asks hesitantly. "You must know how. I don't want to go back to the hospital."

He wants to refuse — it's taking a chance; being the instigator of her pain runs the definite risk of retaliation — but her newfound confidence is vulnerable, and her overture of friendship and need is seductive, too tempting to push away.

"All right," he says. "I'll take care of you, Elizabeth." _As much as you'll let me_ , he thinks, _always_.

* * *

She perches on the bathroom counter, long bare legs dangling, watching him through shadowed eyes — his rough head bent over her hands, his face calm as he carefully wipes away blood. There's no point being surprised that his bulky first aid bag includes suture kits — she just feels a relaxing relief that she's getting what she wants.

He pulls on a pair of latex gloves and uses a pre-soaked sponge to apply a topical anesthetic, rubbing her palms gently, careful not to pull at the raw edges of her skin. Then he leans back to rummage in the cupboard, coming up with a small bottle. He shakes out two thick white pills and offers them to her.

"Acetaminophen," he says, running water into a glass for her. "Everything is going to hurt quite a bit."

She nods, assenting to the pills, to his words, to everything, and swallows the chalky tablets gingerly, her throat still sore and aching.

"We'll wait just a couple of minutes," he says, "for the anesthetic to work."

He tucks her hair behind her ear and looks into her face. "Are you all right?"

She has an almost torpid feeling, as if the shedding of blood, regardless of whose, has satisfied a deep and nagging hunger. She thinks she could sleep for a week, maybe more.

"I'm fine," she answers, "really, I am. Is that strange?"

He cocks his head in that way he has, considering, then shrugs.

"Who can say what's strange and what isn't?" he says. "Not I, certainly."

He bends his head again and prods gently at her left palm with the suture needle.

"How's that?" he asks. "Can you still feel it?"

She can, but it doesn't hurt particularly, so she shakes her head, wanting it over with, longing for rest. She watches him work — carefully, swiftly, neatly, his long fingers strong and dextrous — faintly nauseated but also fascinated by the process, by the sight of her gaping skin slowly drawing together. It seems like a peculiar kind of magic.

He has to stop periodically to wipe away blood, but even with these pauses, it doesn't seem to take that long. She's drooping by the time he finishes taping clean white gauze around each hand, and when he looks at her, one side of his mouth quirks up.

"Will you go back to bed for a bit, then?" he asks, standing and stepping back so that she can slide off the counter. "We have some hours yet before our meeting."

She nods and slips her hand into his lightly. The gesture warms him, even as he worries what these small intimacies will cost him in the end, whether she succumbs to Solomon's insidious brainwashing or simply turns her back again.

But when she tugs him after her into his bedroom, he follows without protest.

When she asks him quietly for a clean shirt, he takes a bright white undershirt from a drawer and helps her change, wincing as he peels the sticky cloth from her skin, looking away as he tries not to savour the feel of her against his fingertips.

When she says, with heavy, pleading eyes, _Don't leave me alone_ , he agrees, and lies down beside her, tugging the heavy comforter over them both.

When she curls drowsily into his side, seeking warmth for her cold frame and comfort for her shaken heart, he wraps an arm around her tightly, thinking it is worth the inevitable pain.

When she falls asleep easily, pressed against him, damp breath brushing his neck, he cannot tell which is stronger, his contentment or his sorrow.


	13. Chapter 13

It's Dembe's arrival that wakes him for the second time that morning; even the quiet rustling movements enough to alert him. It has been an uncustomarily long rest, for him, and the sense of peaceful warmth he feels on waking is a poignant ache.

He gets up as quietly as possible, not prepared to banish the lingering tranquility by chancing her reaction to waking up beside him. He readies himself efficiently, silently, and takes one long last look at her — a tumble of rosy cheeks and limbs and tangled hair — before slipping away.

Dembe hands him a neat duffle with nothing more than a raised eyebrow; he ignores it, and places the bag in the hallway between the bedroom and bathroom for her to find.

She appears in the living room while he and Dembe are deciding on strategy and checking weapons.

"You should have woken me," she says, her voice fuzzy with sleep and cranky with pain. "Do I have time to shower?"

He glances at Dembe, who shrugs.

"Certainly, Elizabeth," he replies. "Be ready in a half our or so, all right? Put gloves on — the first aid kit's on the counter still — and when you're done I'll rewrap your hands."

"Okay," she says, "thanks." She starts for the bathroom, then hesitates and turns back. "Will I need a gun as well?"

A shiver runs through him — closer they may be, things easier between them, her mind more settled, more her own, but he knows he cannot trust her with a gun.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he says carefully.

Her face shutters over as she turns away, and he wishes his answer could have been different.

* * *

She turns to him in the car, face closed and remote, her tone business-like.

"Who is this person we're meeting?" she asks. "An…associate of Solomon's? An enemy?"

"His name is Michaels," Red answers. "He runs the…let's call it the _negotiations_ division of the organization that I believe is behind the attacks on you."

She raises an eyebrow at that. "An enforcer, then. The head thug of a group of thugs."

He chuckles, without much humour. "Basically, yes."

"And you trust him to be straightforward with us?"

He shrugs. "He isn't an unreasonable man; I've dealt with him before. Better, he has a strong sense of self-preservation — but if he needs some persuading, so be it."

She frowns, unsettled and wary; she looks out the window as Dembe pulls up to a dim storefront on a seemingly abandoned street. She wraps her fingers around the object in her pocket; its cold weight is far more reassuring than Reddington's cheery confidence.

 _I'll be ready_ , she thinks, _no matter what._

* * *

A short, burly bald man opens the storefront door to their knock; he and Dembe eye each other like competing predators as Red strolls past with his customary aplomb. She glances around carefully as she trails in his wake, leaving Dembe guarding their backs.

The room is heavy with the musty air of long-empty space, dust coating the few remaining cartons and the long counter that remain. A stiff man in black fatigues stands by the counter, sunglasses in place, looking like a poster ad for bodyguards; in front of him is a much nattier man in a suit and a smile.

"Ah, Michaels," Red is saying as she reaches his side, facing the two men. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

The suited man, who must be Michaels, barks out a short laugh.

"Beijing, wasn't it?" he replies easily, and the two of the embark on the type of rambling conversation Red excels at and she detests.

She tunes them out, her nerves humming anxiously. The presence of so many armed and clearly dangerous strangers has her much more on edge than she'd expected. She shifts her weight and scans the room, noting that Dembe is now flanked by two burly enforcer-types — he doesn't look worried. Occasional words catch her attention — _after Beijing...I know...favour, but…_ As the circuit of her gaze returns to Michaels, the man behind him smirks at her suggestively.

A spark of anger curls dangerously in the pit of her stomach, and she looks back at Red, who is frowning. She keeps one hand in her pocket, clenching and unclenching nervously around the switchblade that lies there. She'd been surprised to find it among the possessions returned to her by the hospital, but unable to discard it; more surprised to find it still in her bag after it was delivered to her by Dembe, but glad of it.

"…it's the Director that holds his leash," Michaels is saying. "If you want to find that…animal, you'll have to ask him."

A tight smile from Red — this news doesn't please him, although she can't see why.

Then Michaels' eyes land on her, like dirty fingers on her skin, and her vision goes hazy and grey for a minute, and she is cold, so cold…

* * *

He is thinking quickly, evaluating — not paying attention, for a moment, just a moment, when a movement in front of him catches his eye.

"And who's your new friend, then?" Michaels says, and with an odious leer, he steps closer to Liz and flips back her hair with a casual finger.

Before Red can move, or even speak, she is on him — fists and feet pounding, relentless — the suddenness of her movement carrying Michaels to the floor.

Red moves smoothly to intercept the bodyguard, trading blows in an exchange he honestly finds refreshing. He can hear the reassuring sounds of Dembe making short work of the two thugs by the door. His tussle ends quickly, with the other man unconscious on the floor and his gun in Red's pocket.

When he turns back to Liz, Michaels is flailing desperately, choking around her knee lodged firmly in his throat, his face torn and bloody.

"Elizabeth," he says, shocked; more than shocked, as the sound of tearing flesh echoes in the nearly empty room, and blood sprays across the floor. _Where did she get a knife?_

Michaels lets out a gasping scream, heaving once in a futile attempt to dislodge her. Red sees a rivulet of blood start to trickle toward his shoes, and Michaels' head hits the floor with a disagreeable thunk.

"Elizabeth, _enough!_ " His voice is sharp and loud this time, and everything stops. Just…stops.

She turns slowly to look at him, her face, hair, torso, splattered liberally with gore, the knife in her hand dripping unpleasantly. She's panting slightly, her expression fixed, eyes blank and teeth bared, like nothing so much as an animal hunched over its prey.

He takes a sliding step closer, cautious. The knife flashes as it comes up; her face still, body poised and taut, crouching over the dying man.

"Elizabeth," he repeats, gentler this time, coaxing. "Elizabeth, come back. It's all right."

She blinks once, twice; shivers all over as if hit by a sudden chill. Then, her eyes seem to focus on him again, and the knife falls to the ground with a sharp clatter.

"Red?" she says faintly, starting to shake. "Red, what happened?"

She looks down, then, and the expression that washes over her face is difficult to read — hate, anger, fear, horror, regret, and behind it all, just a hint of exultation.

"I-I don't…" she flexes her hands, stitches torn, sticky and red with Michaels' blood and her own; tries to stand and stumbles over the body beneath her.

She gags a little as he catches her in his arms; then collapses into him, clutching desperately instead of holding herself apart.

"It's all right," he whispers, rubbing her back soothingly. "I've got you."

* * *

He gets her home as quickly as he can, urging Dembe well beyond his customary cautious limits; he's afraid she is going into shock. He had to carry her to the car, her rusty fingers locked on his lapels, her face buried in the crook of his neck. She spends the drive curled against him, shivering soundlessly, otherwise unmoving.

He gets her walking, with his strong arm supporting her, as they creep up the back stairs to the apartment. He is thankful it is getting late, everything dark and quiet and solitary. Safely home, he walks her down the hall and sits her down in the bathroom. He starts the shower for her, but when he turns back, her eyes have gone blank again — there's nobody there.

He sighs softly, then shuts the bathroom door and strips them both, quickly and efficiently. With gentle hands, he urges her into the tub and under the hot spray, tipping her head back to let the macabre stains soften, run off her face and away.

Unable to help himself, like the hardened thief he is, he steals the opportunity to care for her — he eases her, soothing with touch and water and soft words. He keeps his hands as impersonal as he can as he washes her clean, not wanting to take too much. But inevitably, his strong fingers and the warmth of the water ease her terrible tension, until she is limp enough to have to lean against the tile wall to stay upright.

He touches every part of her, cleansing, testing for bruising, loving her while she does not resist; memorizing the feel of her pliant and warm, the silk of her hair against his fingers. It works — all too well — she comes back to herself bit by bit and then withdraws again, inward and inward, distant and cold.

"Thank you," she says stiffly, awkward and slightly resentful.

He drops his hands and smiles thinly.

"Think nothing of it," he says, coolly polite. His stomach churns with the effort of locking himself back away, although she does it so easily.

* * *

She has always hated the way her vulnerabilities rush forward around him, as if something within is eager to betray her weaknesses. But now, retreated into her hard shell, her palms throbbing, her body cleansed of blood and gore under his gentle hands, she wonders why she cares.

Looking at him, the hair curling damply on his chest, his muscled legs, the soapy washcloth dangling and darkness shadowing his eyes, something breaks inside her.

"Is this me?" she cries, bereft. "This...animal, this madwoman? Is she Solomon's creation alone, or was she always here, just waiting?"

He reaches out to touch her, splintering inside in the face of her pain, wishing he had an answer for her. She shies away and drops her head to look wearily at the floor, watching the water swirl, soapy foam still tinged pink. When she looks back up at him, she is crying.

"Thank you," she says again, and this time her voice is tremulous and sad. "That…that could have been you that I... _he_ meant that to be _you_ , and I…" She's shaking again, voice cracking and her walls are crumbling bit by bit.

He smiles at her, her pain echoed in his eyes, tracing the path of a tear with a gentle finger. "Think nothing of it," he says again, but this time his voice is warm and rich and affectionate.

She steps close, leaning into him, her mind a confused tumble. She rests her cheek against his, her tears mingling with the warm water, taking strength from his arms around her; from his breath on her skin.


	14. Chapter 14

She stands quietly in the steamy bathroom, exhausted, and lets him dry her body while she stares at the wall, trying very hard not to think, not to feel. He is incredibly gentle, his movements a whisper against her skin, his face set in troubled lines. A firmer touch, and she looks down to watch him trace the initial on her chest, sending a trembling shiver through her, then he rests his hand flat between her breasts, covering the paling scar.

The warm weight of his hand is somehow comforting, feels somehow…safe. Without thought, barely even realizing she's speaking aloud, she starts to talk, words tumbling out easily, as if they had only been waiting for the right moment to arrive.

"He used to like to talk about you," she says, "when he cut me. Things you had done, why you wanted me. I think it was so that even when he was doing terrible things, it would be you that was linked to the pain."

He jerks his hand away, biting his cheek on a gasp, his eyes appalled as they meet hers. She catches it though, and brings it back, pressing him into her skin, offering the faint replica of a smile.

"No," she says, "I like it. It reminds me that his words were lies, that my memories can't be relied on. It reminds me that you are someone I can trust."

He closes his eyes and wraps his other arm around her to pull her close roughly, like he can't help himself, pressing his face into her hair. Water still beads on his body, his skin chill and wet against her towel-rubbed warmth. She brings her own arms up tentatively, folding them around him carefully, his scars a melody of texture under her hands.

It's a sweetly peaceful moment and she feels almost human — skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. But it's not long enough, not nearly, before the familiar, hateful need uncurls and spreads, insidious and strong, seeking pain and blood and satisfaction. Solomon lurks in the corners of her mind, always ready, his soft, persistent voice teasing and tugging and scouring the good out of her over and over and over.

* * *

He feels her body tense all too soon, her limbs stiffening, neck rigid against his cheek. He pulls away carefully, not too fast, not too far — it's not rejection but consideration. Her eyes have gone cloudy again, her lips pressed together in a gesture of containment.

"It's too much," he says quietly, understanding. He gestures between them with a wry smile. "Not exactly a small step."

She looks for a moment like she cannot decide whether to laugh or cry; she settles for a small _tsk_ of annoyance.

" _This_ ," she says coolly, imitating his gesture, "doesn't bother me in the slightest. I stopped caring about my body the first time he took his blade to me. It's just a shell; it isn't me, not really. It didn't matter though," she adds absently. "He took the rest of me, too."

He winces briefly, he can't help it; she sees it and pats his cheek gently.

"Stop worrying so much," she says quietly. "If I can't stop hearing him, I can still stop listening. I did it before, I can do it again. I can try, Red, I can keep trying. I can win this, I know it."

At the end of it, her voice is pleading, and she leans back into him to kiss him firmly, her mouth warm and wet. He should stop her, should talk to her — she's not ready, and this kind of closeness isn't really the point, and he never wanted to be a testing ground. But her hands are on his shoulders and her mouth is moving softly and she is _his_ , even wounded, broken, lost, she is _his_ , and he could never turn away. She's coaxing his mouth open and he gives to her readily, his own hands coming around to stroke her warm, fragrant skin and hold her close.

She shudders all over when he touches her, and her fingers tighten, her teeth start to worry at his bottom lip. It's teasing and sensual and then suddenly it isn't, and the metallic taste of his own blood follows the sharp sting of pain. She pulls away with a gasp, eyes burning blue and bright, her face a terrible mix of confusion, misery, and resignation.

Before he can say anything, do anything, she is gone and he is left alone, warmth gone in a gust, in a whirl of hair and limbs and a choking cry he doesn't think she was aware of. He spits the blood out of his mouth into the sink, then takes the time to dry himself and tidy the room efficiently, letting the familiarity of the simple tasks occupy him while he quiets his mind.

* * *

Leaving his soiled, bloody clothes behind, but taking the first aid kit with him, he makes his way slowly to the bedroom, unsure of what he will find. It's dark, but he can make out the shape of her in the light from the hallway, curled tight in a bundle of blankets with her back to him. He wonders unhappily how many nights of her captivity she lay just like this, clutching her pain close with nowhere to put it but deep inside. If he can take it from her now, he will.

He moves as quietly as he can to his closet, pulling on fresh flannel sleep pants with a sigh of relief at the soft warmth. He walks around the bed, making a bit of noise this time, not wanting to surprise or alarm, and sits beside her huddled form, stretching out his legs with a soft groan and leaning against the headboard. She shifts a tiny bit, like a flinch, as his weight moves the mattress, but doesn't speak, and he can't see her face.

He looks down at the tangle of damp hair, all of her that shows outside the heavy blanket, and his heart thumps.

"Elizabeth?"

Nothing, not even a twitch this time. He tries again, firmer and unquestioning.

"Elizabeth, look at me, please."

"Just go away," she replies, voice small and thick with exhaustion, emotion, pain.

"I won't," he says, "I'm sorry, but I won't leave you like this."

She emerges reluctantly, uncurling and pushing herself out of her cozy retreat to sit cross-legged and glaring, her face flushed, her ragged tee slipping off her shoulder. He is struck hard, her fragile beauty a precious thing, and he can only look, memorizing her again and again.

"What?" she demands after a moment, impatient and a little awkward. "If you won't leave me alone, you could at least say something."

He resists the urge to touch her, knowing it won't carry comfort.

"I want to help you," he says instead, "isn't that why you're here, and not at home?"

"I-I thought so," she says, unhappy now, unsure. "But I can't…shake it when we get so close. I thought it was getting better, it _was_ getting better, but…"

She trails off, her eyes miserable and damp, her body a sketch of defeat.

"You need to hurt me," he says gently, and though he had already known, saying it aloud wounds.

She nods, then looks away. He wonders if her shame is progress, or just another cruelty.

"But," he continues, "you also need to learn to be close. To accept my intentions for what they are rather than what your false memories tell you. To accept my touch as harmless, benevolent."

She does look at him then, bitter amusement creasing her face, darkening her wet pansy eyes.

"You say that as if it's so simple. But every time I let my guard down, his voice is there, right there in my head. I'm _trying_ not to listen, but…" She looks down at her hands, and when she continues speaking, her voice is softer, reluctant. "Your touch has never been harmless to me, Red."

His heart thumps again, painfully, catching his breath in his throat. He wonders that the cold callousness of fate should still surprise him, after all this time; that she could only say this now, when all that was left to them was ruin. He controls himself with effort before speaking; maintains his calm expression, an even tone.

"It will take time," he answers soothingly. "You have to learn to ignore him, ignore the instinct, to fight for what _you_ want, then it will all start to fade. In the meantime," he continues, "I'm here for you."

She looks up at him again, a little blankly, and he sighs, prepares to lay himself bare.

"You _will_ heal," he says, fiercely intent, "whatever it takes. If you need to hurt me, Elizabeth, then do so."

* * *

His simple acceptance of the need she now reviles, his calm offer to let her use him as she will quickens the seething roil within, even as her conscious mind recoils.

It makes her think, fighting to ignore the clamour of her body, the hideous instincts implanted inside her — ever since her first mindless attack, he has given himself to her. When she came to him, raging and violent and desperate, when she sought to violate him in some sort of twisted revenge and fulfilment, he opened himself to her assault and gave her what she needed.

Again and again, he has let her strike, lash out, rape and destroy. The tears come easily now, and it seems that she has indeed made progress; where once she told herself defiantly that it was no more than what he deserved, she now felt the weight of her every action.

The thought of tearing him open once more is suddenly horrifying, and as if a switch has flicked in her mind, a final settling of the shift that has been happening since she first faced him in these quiet rooms, she stops thinking of what he owes, and thinks instead of what he has given. Images of him sweep through her - his face intent, talking urgently or whispering softly; his head bent over her bloody wounds, healing and caring for her; the deep sadness in his eyes as she takes her pain/pleasure/punishment from his body. Now, she no longer blames him for her hurts and sorrows and pain. _I need to save it_ , she thinks, _for the one truly responsible_.

"Don't cry," he's saying gently, "don't, Elizabeth. I'll make it right, I swear to you."

She offers him a watery smile, and grips his hand hard in hers, ignoring the shot of pain from her stitched palm.

"I don't want to give in anymore," she says. "If I am to learn to ignore this...conditioning, then I need to start denying it as well. I don't want to concede any of the ground I've taken."

He smiles back at her, appreciating her metaphor, and if neither expression is exactly authentic, at least they are trying.

"All right then," he says quietly. "Let's just start a little slower, shall we? Your hands need rewrapping."

She offers him her hands with their grimy, wet bandages, and closes her eyes to enjoy the feeling of being cared for. His hands are both gentle and agile, and there is no more pain to aggravate or alarm. She opens her eyes again to pristine white gauze when she feels the bed shift as he leans over to put the kit on the floor.

"There we are," he says. "Now, why don't you come here, and rest a while?"

He lays back and tugs on her hand invitingly. With a sigh, she follows him to the soft pillows, curls up against him just as she had in the early hours of the morning. With a few deft adjustments, he has them covered in blankets, cozy and safe.

"There," he says softly, his breath warm against her cheek. "That's just right."

And it is.


	15. Chapter 15

Wakefulness comes to her like a slap, as it always does now, her body jerking from sleep in a heart-pumping instant. Something in her surroundings is different, which furthers her alertness, adrenaline pushing her up to sitting, looking around herself swiftly, evaluating.

It only takes a moment to identify the change — she isn't alone.

Curled beside her, facing her as if he'd been watching her sleep, is Reddington. The sour surge of hate that wells up is almost easy to ignore this time, as if it cannot truly compete with her more recent feelings of gratitude, friendship; of fresh memories of him caring for her.

She's able to sit quietly beside him, taking a turn at watch as he breathes evenly. Whether he is destroyer or saviour, or something in between, it seems that she has thrown her lot in with his, now. Because his silent vulnerability doesn't spur her to violence, although the voice inside her urges her to act; rather, it makes her want to run a hand over the short fuzz of his hair, pull the blanket up, and keep him safe.

It's as if there are two of her, battling within her for the high ground, fighting for control of the person that she is, or will be.

 _Elizabeth versus Lizzie_ , she thinks wryly, _or, maybe, Solomon versus Reddington_.

She hopes, wrapping her arms around her knees and looking at his sleepingl face, that Lizzie will win, in the end.

* * *

He wakes easily, rested and warm, with all his nerves and fears and racing thoughts lying quiet for once. He notes that he's alone, but the blankets beside him carry a lingering warmth, as if she had left not long before.

He rolls over onto his back, feeling unaccountably well and optimistic, and stretches lazily.

There are plans to make today, an approach to decide on and preliminary moves to make, but he takes this moment as it is given to him — a quiet, homey space to breathe.

As he lays there, luxuriating, a faint aroma begins to colour the air — someone's put coffee on, and he wonders if Dembe is unusually early or if Elizabeth has braved the kitchen.

He slips out of bed and wanders to the bathroom to attend to the morning necessities, ignoring the inner voice that warns him against becoming complacent in this new harmony. Refreshed, he pads to the kitchen, rubbing absently at his chest, his flannel pants low on his hips.

He stops in the doorway, a smile on his lips and an odd ache in his heart — whether simply in response to the sweetness of the scene or due to its transience he cannot tell.

Coffee drips cheerfully as Elizabeth stands at the counter in her disreputable t-shirt and shorts, stirring something in a mixing bowl and humming as the cat winds around her legs, purring. He carefully commits the picture to memory, adding it to his small, guarded collection, then clears his throat gently.

"Good morning, Elizabeth."

Her shoulders jerk slightly at the sound of his voice, but when she turns around, her eyes are bright and clear and she is wearing an appealingly shy smile.

"Good morning," she replies. "I'm making breakfast."

She sounds so pleased with herself that his own face lights in response, and his hands twitch with the desire to hold her. Instead, he crosses the room to stand beside her and peek into the bowl she is working on.

"Eggs?" he says cheerfully. "Good choice."

"I hope you like them scrambled," she says, and everything about her is warm and hopeful and sweet.

He can't help it anymore — he leans over and presses a kiss to her temple.

"It's just right," he says quietly, heart full. "Just right, Elizabeth."

* * *

 _It's odd_ , she thinks, _how something that is so surreal can also feel so…perfect_.

Sitting with him, eating eggs and toast with the cat curled by the table in a patch of sun and Red telling some ridiculous story about a botched heist in Marrakech — it all feels bizarrely like home. Like she finally belongs somewhere.

And it's a heady feeling, one she doesn't want to let go of.

 _So quickly_ , she thinks, _so quickly that terrible hate turned a corner to become something different_. Quickly enough that it makes her wonder what was underneath it all, all along. What their foundation really was, before Solomon.

"Elizabeth?"

His dark, rumbling voice interrupts her thoughts, and she gives herself a little mental shake and pays attention.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I was thinking of something else."

He smiles at her. "Understandable," he says quietly. "I was just wondering if you were ready to talk about our next steps."

And though she wants nothing more than to find Solomon, to punish him for the wrongs he did her, a small corner of her urges her to refuse. To stay here in this cozy place with him and make something bright and new.

"Elizabeth?" His cautious voice brings her out of her thoughts again.

"I…of course," she says, angry at her own weakness. "What are you thinking?"

"Do you recall my conversation with Michaels yesterday?"

She shrugs uncomfortably, her mind shying away from her blurry red memories of the previous day.

"He didn't know how to find Solomon," she mutters. "He said you should ask someone else… the, um, Conductor?"

"The Director," he corrects, "one head of this miserable Hydra. Some call it an alliance; some call it the Cabal."

"That's…melodramatic."

He chuckles drily. "Maybe so. But accurate, all the same. The Cabal exists as a shadow organization, one that operates unseen — a global conspiracy composed of some of the world's most powerful leaders, in both government and the private sector. They start wars, create chaos — or when it suits them, they put a stop to both."

"To what end?" she asks, curious but wary. "You know that this all sounds like the worst kind of paranoia."

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you, Lizzie," he quips, making her roll her eyes. "As to what end — power, of course, power and control. And let's not forget profit. Cabal members will move more money in the next quarter than the World Bank will in the next year. They influence world events to profit themselves and promote the group's interests.

The Director, with many allies on his side, believes that there are too many players currently on the board. He desires a return to a bipolar world, one with a clear hero and a clear enemy, and hence a more stable balance of power. The U.S., obviously, would play the hero in this scenario, putting him in an extremely powerful position."

"And just who _is_ this nefarious puppeteer?"

"His name is Peter Kotsiopulous."

"Kotsiopulous?" she asks intently. "Why do I know that… wait. The Director of Clandestine Services? _That_ Peter Kotsiopulous?"

"The very same. Are you really that surprised?"

"Are you insane?" she returns. "One of the most trusted men in our government? Some sort of…evil mastermind?"

"I wouldn't say _mastermind_ ," he answers, slightly indignantly. "Certainly a very powerful man, by any account. And perfectly placed to carry out any number of activities right under your government's nose."

"I just…it's difficult to accept."

"Really? Diane Fowler, Assistant Attorney General; Alan Fitch, Assistant Director of National Intelligence. Both former operatives. And not nearly the top of list in placement of power and importance on the world stage."

She isn't sure of anything anymore, but she _has_ decided to place her trust in Red, hasn't she?

"Are you absolutely positive?"

"I am," he says, and his tone is so flat and final that she shivers a little.

"Then what are we going to do?" she asks, her leg jiggling restlessly. "We can't exactly make an appointment."

He gives her a sly grin that makes her want to laugh, in spite of everything.

"Oh," he says coolly, "I think that I can work something out. I just need to take care of a couple of things."

"If you say so," she says doubtfully. "Can I…oh, but I can't."

He raises an eyebrow questioningly.

"I have appointments of my own today," she explains awkwardly. "The doctor, this morning — one last checkup to make sure everything is healed properly. Then therapy, this afternoon." She twists her mouth a little, thinking of the intricate dance she will have to do. "I don't have to go. I skipped the last one."

"That's all right," he says quietly. "You should go — you need to take care of yourself, first."

"What should I say," she wonders, "about all this?"

He regards her steadily, and she can feel his sincerity. "Whatever you think is right, Elizabeth. If you trust your therapist, and I hope that you do, you should tell the truth. She might have some useful thoughts about how you might cope with me, how you can continue to deny Solomon's programming."

She bites her lip, unsure. "I don't think she'll approve of me staying here," she says. "But you're right, I suppose. I don't need help 'coping' with you though," she adds, a bit defensively, twisting her fingers together. "You're doing everything you can to help me, certainly more than any therapist could."

She flushes and looks down at the table.

Full of warmth, he reaches out to cover her clenched hands with one of his own.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that you think so," he says softly. "But it never hurts to get a second opinion. You go to your appointments, and Dembe will accompany you as usual."

"What about you?" she asks, suddenly anxious. "You shouldn't be on your own, it's too dangerous."

Ridiculously pleased by her concern, he squeezes her hands comfortingly.

"I'll have Baz with me," he says cheerfully. "Don't you worry, Elizabeth. Things are all coming together; it will all be over soon."

He probably shouldn't have said it out loud.


	16. Chapter 16

He hates waiting.

He makes calls from the back of the car to pass the time; he needs to attend to some of the many things that have been left undone since Elizabeth's capture. All the same, when Baz' knock sounds on the window, he doesn't hesitate to hang up in the middle of a contract negotiation.

If nothing else, his priorities have always been firmly in order.

He tucks the cell into his jacket and adjusts his cuffs sharply. The door across from him opens, and a frightened looking young man is…ushered inside.

"Ah, Charlie," Red says genially. "How are you this fine day?"

"I…Wh–what do you want?" Charlie stammers. "Are you g–going to kill me?"

"Heavens, no," Red exclaims, laughing. "I just need to ask you for a very small favour."

"A favour? M–me? Wh–what could I d–do? I–I just mow lawns."

"And I'm sure you do an absolutely splendid job! Now, the house you came from this morning."

"Mr. Kotsiopulous?" Charlie asks hesitantly.

"The very one," Red beams. "A very old friend of mine, as it happens. I'm planning a little event, an _intimate_ gathering, as it were — a surprise for my old friend. And to make things work out well, I need to borrow your gate key."

Charlie shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't think I can do that, sir. Mr. Kotsiopulous, he trusts me. All my clients do."

"And for good reason, I can see!" Red puts a hand casually on the boy's leg, the other in his coat pocket to palm his gun in a threatening sort of way, and leans in a little. "I'm afraid, however, that I'm going to have to insist."

The boy blanches, freckles standing out darkly on his sweaty, nervous face. He picks anxiously at the cuticle on his thumb with the forefinger of his left hand.

"You aren't going to kill _him_ , are you?"

Red sighs and affects patience. "My dear boy, I have absolutely _no_ wish to harm anyone at all." Utterly true, really, if a tad misleading.

Clearly wanting only to escape the confines of the car at this point, Charlie mumbles, "I g–guess it will be okay."

He fishes a key ring out of his pants pocket and fumbles with it until he has the correct one loose in his hand. He holds it out to Red with a hopeful look. Red releases the gun and withdraws his hand from his pocket to take the key, and pats Charlie's leg in a comforting way.

"Thank you very much, young man. Now, why don't you be on your way, and I'll be on mine."

Charlie doesn't need to be told twice; seizing his good fortune, he scrambles out of the car and bolts down the street without looking back.

Red leans back, still smiling broadly.

"All right, Baz," he says cheerfully. "Let's head home, shall we? I've got a few more things to take care of before Elizabeth rejoins us this afternoon."

* * *

She stops for a moment outside the gleaming office tower to take a deep breath of fresh air. It has been a gruelling day, all in all — trying to explain her neatly stitched hands to the doctor, without causing trouble for Red or herself, being poked and prodded and tested for remaining weaknesses. A break for lunch, a breath, and then she was defending her decision (if you could call it that), to move into Red's apartment, to work with and trust him. It ended up being a difficult struggle that she could have lived without.

 _I need him,_ she'd ended up shouting. _Does it really matter why_?

Her therapist had given her a long, level look, then just said, _If you knew the answer to that question, then you'd know why it matters_.

She lets out an impatient huff, rolling her shoulders to shake off her temper, and winds through the parking lot to find Dembe. She opens the car door and slumps into the passenger seat wearily, having to make a conscious effort not to slam the door behind her.

"How was your session, Elizabeth?"

She feels herself ease under the warm, familiar tone, though a small, nagging whisper of frustration and doubt remains.

"About what I expected," she says. "She didn't come right out and say I'm doing the wrong things, but she thinks I'm definitely not being honest about why I'm doing them."

"As long as you are being fair to yourself," Dembe says quietly. "And to Raymond."

"I…" she trails off almost immediately, not at all sure what she wants to say. She counts herself very lucky to have a friend in Dembe, but he is often uncomfortably insightful.

She stays quiet the entire drive, trying to both think about what she wants, and to sort out which thoughts are truly her own. It's still far more difficult than she'd like.

Dembe's voice shakes her out of her reverie as he pulls up to the apartment building. "Raymond wants us to wait for them here," he says. "It's already time to go."

"Go?" she asks. "I didn't…oh, I guess things went well today?"

Dembe just shrugs laconically, so she stares out her window at the afternoon traffic, wondering how to prepare herself when she doesn't know what's coming.

* * *

Whatever she thought might happen, it certainly wasn't casually strolling up to the stately house of the Director of Clandestine Services and letting themselves into his backyard with a key. When she utters a faint noise of protest, Red offers her a roguish wink, and ushers her ahead of him through the high wooden gate.

He approaches the house with no particular care — "No one's home," he assures her cheerily.

As they come to the solid back door, he crouches to examine the deadbolt over the brass knob. He pulls a slim leather wallet from inside his jacket, draws out a couple of lock picks, and starts fiddling.

After a minute, she rolls her eyes and squats beside him. "Here, let me," she says impatiently, taking the tools from him.

He smiles and shifts to give her access — with a few deft twists, the lock clicks audibly and she stands, moving to open the door.

"Wait," he says sharply, just as her hand touches the knob. "There's an alarm system."

They trade places again, and he opens the door swiftly. As the warning beep of the alarm sounds loudly, he strides to the wall panel in the hallway and rapidly punches in a code. As the sound cuts off with a cheerful beep of affirmation, he turns to where she stands in the doorway and grins.

"Manufacturer's failsafe," he says nonchalantly. "Don't worry about it." He resets the alarm for "at home", then says, "Let's make ourselves comfortable, shall we?"

So they move into the house, which is richly appointed but not too showy, settle beside one another on a wide leather couch in the open front room, and wait.

* * *

Luckily for her nerves, it's only about fifteen minutes until they hear the sound of the front door, the series of alarm beeps. A steady murmur of male voices, then the door shuts and a single set of footsteps echo in the hall.

It's scant moments until a tall, slim figure stands in the open doorway of the room, face flashing from end-of-a-long-day tired to enraged in an instant.

"How dare you," The Director says, his voice low, quiet, and seething with rage. "How _dare_ you come into my _home_?"

"Oh, do calm down, Peter," Red says coolly. "We just need a few minutes of your time."

The Director's eyes narrow as he looks at Liz, but he doesn't say anything, merely turns toward the entry to the house.

"Don't waste time," Red tells him. "Your men are occupied with mine, just at the moment."

Stiff with anger, the Director sits in a high-backed chair facing them.

"I cannot imagine what you think I'll be willing to do for you," he spits.

"Oh," Red says, drawing his pistol from under his coat. "I think you'll find yourself able to answer a question or two."

"You wouldn't be so reckless," the Director says, but his voice is less angry, more cautious.

"Trust me when I say, Peter, that you have _no_ idea of the lengths I will go to in order to safeguard the ones I love."

His voice, drained of all his Reddington bonhomie, no trace of the affection or warmth she is accustomed to, is absolutely chilling, and sets her nerves on edge. She shifts beside him, and he puts a warning hand on her knee without looking at her. The Director, pale now, nods shortly.

"What do you want?"

"Hardly anything, really," Red says, "Certainly not even a small portion of what you owe me. All I want is the location of Mathias Solomon."

The Director looks from Red to Liz, and snorts a cynical laugh that has her twitching again — she might have lashed out if not for Red's hand, still firm on her leg.

"Do you really think it will help?"

"That isn't your concern," Red replies coldly. He raises the gun a touch. "The location."

With a sigh, the Director rattles off an address. Liz thinks if she got any more on edge, she'd fall off of it — he gave that up far too easily. Or maybe he is just confident in Solomon's abilities. The terribly familiar face flashes through her mind, and a wave of nausea hits her. She swallows drily, clenching her fists, and tries to focus.

"It's a company safe house," the Director is saying, "but Mathias is alone there. It's how he prefers it."

"There, wasn't that simple?" Red says, with a false and cheery smile. "I _do_ hope you're being honest, Peter. Trust me when I say that you _will_ regret it, if I find differently."

"That's where he is, and he stays alone," the Director repeats. "You're not worth lying to."

Red nods. "All right, then," he says. "We shall see."

Without lowering the gun, he lets go of Liz and pulls his phone from his pocket; speed dials a number.

"Could you come in now?" he says, and clicks off again.

Moments later, Dembe and Baz enter, with two security types at gunpoint.

"I need you both to stay here and make sure things stay nice and quiet," Red orders.

Dembe start to say something, but Red quells him with a look and the big man just nods in silent acquiescence.

"Come along, Elizabeth," Red standing and offering her his free hand. "Time to beard the lion — and then this will all be over."

She tries to smile, quivering inside, and takes his hand to pull herself to her feet. She follows him out the front door and toward the car, wondering if it is at all possible that it will ever be truly over.


	17. Chapter 17

As the car moves smoothly through the night, she's struck by the oddity of it — has she ever seen him drive before? She thinks not, even with many of her memories still blurred or hidden away. But he's as confident and competent behind the wheel as he is pretty much everywhere else. She sighs, thinking that while experience is one thing, it's really his overwhelming self-assurance that makes him seem so accomplished, so smooth — and she can't imagine ever carrying the same aplomb.

She watches the lights flash by the window, jittery, on edge. The tension that started to build as they sat waiting in the Director's dark house is holding her captive now, her body aching with it.

She wishes, just for a moment, that Red was driving them away, taking her somewhere else. Somewhere she could forget all the anger and misery, where she could rest and heal.

 _Head in the clouds again, Butterball_. Sam's voice in her head. She turns back to Red, and reality.

"Are you sure we can trust him?" she asks. "The Director?"

"Normally, I wouldn't," Red answers. "But this time…what he said matches up with what I know about Solomon, and he's got no reason to lie." He glances at her and smiles. "I believe he thinks that Solomon will kill us both, and solve many of his current problems for him."

The fear that lives inside her starts to stretch, filling her empty places with quivering apprehension.

"Are you so sure that he won't?"

She can't help but ask it.

His right hand slips off the steering wheel and finds hers with a warm squeeze.

"Against the two of us? He hasn't got a chance."

She curls her fingers into his and hopes that his confidence is well-founded.

* * *

When they pull up to the curb in a quiet street, she looks around warily.

"Here?" she asks worriedly. "It's so…suburban."

He shrugs. "And therefore, unremarkable."

She hesitates, but knows she has to ask.

"Red, I need…I need a weapon. I can't go in there against him with nothing to keep me safe, I just can't."

"I know," he says gently. "It's okay, Elizabeth. I want you safe, too."

He reaches over her lap and flicks open the glove compartment; pulls out what looks like a standard FBI Glock and hands it to her.

"It's loaded," he says.

She looks anyway, training and habit both too ingrained for her to be able to take up a weapon without checking it over fully. When she looks up again, he's smiling at her.

"What?" she asks, self-conscious now.

"It's good to see you so much yourself, that's all. I'm proud of you, Elizabeth."

She pinks a little, and smiles back.

"Let's go, then," she says, "and put the rest of it behind us both."

They walk quietly down the street to the right house number, not sneaking, exactly, but staying unobtrusive. It's dark inside, she notes as they pass, at least at the front of the house; the fear inside her leaps again, that they won't find him there. That they will.

They keep walking, past the next house over so they can slip down its far side into the backyard — and here, the gate doesn't even _have_ a lock. Her heart is beating fast as they sidle through the yard, keeping to the fence. When they reach the side between the yard they're in and Solomon's, she stops and looks at him skeptically.

He just winks and crouches down, cupping his hands in front of himself to give her a boost. She swings over easily enough with the extra push — it reminds her just how strong he is, under the suit — and lands solidly on her feet.

Alone, just for this moment in the dark yard, her nerves leap to life, her system churning with fear, with anger, with confusion. She spots a light on the second floor — _there he is, there he is_ — and takes off for the house without waiting for Red; she can't wait, needs to be moving, needs to act.

She shoves a hand in her pocket and finds, with some relief, the lockpicks that she'd taken from him earlier. Squatting in front of the door, she works at the lock quickly and surely.

"Wait." A quiet call from the fence. "Elizabeth, wait for me."

But she can't, it's ridiculous to expect her to, now that they are so close, so close to ending her wretched torment. Rage and uncertainty and adrenaline churn within her in a dangerous chemical stew, and the lock clicks with a tiny _snick_.

She's through the door in a flash, heedless of the footsteps behind her, tearing through the dark, empty kitchen for the hallway and the stairs. As she hits the bottom step, there's a muffled thump from above, and she's flying now — he's up there, waiting, and she's running flat out with her gun in her hand.

She doesn't really register Red's panicked hiss from somewhere behind her, _Elizabeth, no!_

Doesn't listen to the small voice inside telling to her stop, to remember her field training, to not be so stupid.

Two at a time up the stairs, fleet as a deer — she's unhealthily lighter than she used to be, so she still doesn't make much noise, even going full out. Down the hall in an instant, racing to the light as if she has to catch it before it can escape and leave her in the dark forever.

But she's met in the doorway with a cold spray of mist in her face that makes her inhale on reflex, stopping in her tracks so fast that she almost falls.

As her mind goes blank and dark, she hears the sly voice of her nightmares.

 _Oh, Elizabeth, did you really think I wouldn't be ready for you?_

* * *

He's still crouched on the top of the fence when she gets the door unlocked and open.

"Wait," he calls, suddenly afraid. "Elizabeth, wait for me."

But she doesn't, of course she doesn't, and he thinks his heart actually stops beating as she darts into the house, gone in an instant. He's down and after her in the next moment, fishing in his pocket as he runs to press the two buttons on the phone in his pocket that will bring Dembe, Dembe who will do whatever he cannot, who will keep Elizabeth safe.

"Elizabeth, no," he hisses desperately, as he gets into the house just in time to hear her boots hit the stairs.

He races after her, silence be damned now, because the fear is everywhere inside him and he can't run fast enough to escape it. A one-on-one confrontation between her and her torturer was never the plan. _For God's sake_ , he thinks unhappily as he pounds up the stairs, gun out and ready, _running headlong like that, he can just as easily shoot her in the face the second he can see her_.

The panic drives him, but she's impossibly far, she's out of reach, because at the top of the stairs, her can already hear the insidious murmur of Solomon's voice. As he reaches the lit bedroom door at the end of the hall, he sees with horror that it has all been for nothing, _nothing_ , because Solomon's hand is gripping her arm, his other holding her gun, and he is muttering rapidly into her ear.

Her back is to the door, to him, stiff and still, but Solomon looks up as he stops just inside the room, and greets him with a smirk as he swiftly raises the gun to press it to her temple.

"If you even think about aiming that gun at me," Solomon says conversationally, "I'll shoot her in the head."

Red inclines his head slightly, but doesn't move otherwise, waiting, waiting for his world to end, one way or another.

Solomon takes her hand in his, and does something that Red cannot see. Solomon raises an eyebrow when she doesn't move; she looks down at her hand and sighs heavily. Then he smiles at her, and it seems almost sweet.

"You know what you need to do," he says smoothly. "Then the pain will be gone forever. Look," he continues, putting his hands on her shoulders and turning her around, the gun barrel brushing her neck. "He's come after you, just like I told you he would."

"Yes," she says, her voice dull and rusty with hate and despair. "Of course he did. He's _always there_."

Her face is empty of expression as she meets Red's eyes, his face anxious and tense. Does he imagine the flicker in her gaze? She takes a jerky step toward him; starts to tremble.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" she screams suddenly, her face contorted with rage, making both men flinch in startlement.

She takes another halting step, another. The light glints off the clean silver of the blade clutched in her hand. She's visibly shaking now, and when she steps again, she stumbles and falls to one knee. She's back up in an instant, takes a step back this time, then another step forward. He hates the look on her face, the tremors that wrack her body, the anguish that now clouds her eyes. He starts to walk, too, meeting her halfway, stopping when she is within touching distance; just a few more steps would take him inside punching range of Solomon.

She's staring at him, her expression inscrutable now, face pale and eyes dim. With a quivering hand, she brings her fingertips to his face.

"I hate you, you know," she says, the point of the knife pressing against his gut, just so, piercing through his clothing to prick his skin so slightly, so slightly.

He smiles, forgiving; tired, so tired of waiting, so tired of fighting. He hopes only that his death will bring her the peace she so desperately needs. That Dembe will arrive in time to save her.

"I know," he replies easily, tucking her hair behind her ear and stroking her cheek. "I know, Elizabeth. It's okay, you'll be okay."

"And…I love you," she continues, as if she hadn't heard him; as if he hadn't spoken. " _I love you_."

She pivots away from him, and before he has even processed her words, she's lunging forward, driving her knife into Solomon while he's still wearing his gloating leer.

Red will never forget the look of absolute shock that comes over the other man's face — will treasure it in his darker moments. He takes the first real breath he's managed since they came into this commonplace little room…and the next moment is choking in terror when he sees Solomon's hand lift.

He's moving, moving, as fast as he can, his own gun slipping in his sweaty grip, aiming the barrel at Solomon's head, firing, desperately firing, but it's too loud, too loud, and the two of them drop to the floor together, Elizabeth falling away to land hard on her back, crimson knife clattering out of fingers suddenly limp.

Blood coats her hands, face, throat; it soaks through her shirt, begins to pool beneath her. But what rivets him in place for a long, hideous moment is the ease of her face and the smile, _Lizzie's_ smile, gracing her lips as she lays there, peaceful at last.

"Red," she croaks, breaking the spell, reaching for him.

He falls to his knees beside her, clutching her hand, searching desperately for the bullet hole.

"Red," she says again. "Raymond, I _do_ …love…you…"

She's smiling and bleeding and this moment will never end.


	18. Chapter 18

He's terrible at waiting, and despises hospitals. He sits, then stands, then paces, restless and anxious and afraid. He fidgets with his cuffs, the pristine white of his sleeves stained rusty and stiff, and he can't get the residue out from under his fingernails, no matter how many times he washes his hands.

Dembe sits quietly in a chair in the corner; Red thinks he might be meditating. Ressler is across the room, muttering into his cell phone with an intense look on his face. But Red, Red can't be still, not with the image of her blood flowing over his hands repeating over and over in his head.

Finally, the doctor comes out, her face drawn and weary after hours of surgery.

"Agent Ressler?"

Red freezes in place, at last able to be still, as Ressler strides over.

"Yes," he says briskly. "Agent Keen?"

And Red has to give him credit for the genuine concern that colours his tone.

"She came through surgery okay," the doctor replies, and though her voice is clinical, it is now the most lovely sound in Red's world, as his knees weaken in relief.

"We had to remove her spleen and repair some damage to her left kidney. She'll have some serious recovering to do, but she should be just fine."

 _Physically, at least,_ Red thinks somberly, as Ressler thanks the doctor and asks her questions about visitation and recovery. He listens with half an ear, long enough to discover she's being moved to ICU, and shouldn't have visitors until the next day at least.

He slips away then, following signs to Intensive Care while Ressler is distracted with the doctor. He employs a great deal of charm to coax the duty nurse into letting him into the room — _just for a few minutes,_ he assures her, _just to be sure she is really okay._

Then he stands over her, terribly pale and thin, somehow smaller than she should be in the sterile hospital bed. But she is breathing easily and on her own, and he lets himself drift for a few minutes in the quiet hums and clicks of the hospital machinery, his eyes fixed on her face.

What he _wants_ to see is the hopeful expression she wore when she finally decided she could trust him; the peaceful ease on her face as she slept next to him; even that last smile she gave him as Solomon died beside them, the real _Lizzie_ smile.

What he _does_ see is the contortions of anger and hatred as she rises over him, takes him apart, piece by piece. Her lips, marked with his blood; her hands claws that dig into him. Her eyes, wide and shadowed, bleak with panic and fear as she clings to him out of desperation rather than desire.

He buries his face in his hands with a low moan; moments later, he feels the weight of a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"You know you cannot stay here, Raymond."

He knows Dembe doesn't just mean this room, this hospital, but Washington itself, and Elizabeth's life. He also knows this is right, but oh, how it hurts.

"I know," he manages, his voice heavy with sorrow. "She needs a real chance to heal, for herself."

"Yes," Dembe agrees, "she does. But Raymond," he continues, his voice so gentle and kind that Red almost breaks. "So do you."

He wants to weep or scream, to rail at the cruelty of the world, at the unfairness of it all. But he learned the futility of such gestures long ago, and anyway, this time it is only justice, after all.

He leans over and places a soft kiss on her forehead; whispers in a husky murmur, pressing the words into her skin as if they might linger there.

Then he walks away, with Dembe beside him, to see if there is a place in the world that any solace can be found.

* * *

The first couple of days are a hazy blur of nurses and nausea and pain. They tell her she can't have visitors, and she can only be glad that no one she knows will see her this way.

She dreams of gentle hands, a soft kiss on her forehead. Whispered words, traced against her skin — _I'm sorry; I'll miss you; I love you, always._

When she wakes one morning with a clear head at last, it's Ressler who sits beside the bed, who offers her a cup of water with a friendly, relieved smile. It's Ressler who tells her that she has been given an official medical leave, that her FBI insurance will cover her hospital bills, that her apartment will be waiting for her. It's Ressler who tells her that yes, Solomon is dead, that she is free, that she might be able to clear his spidery shadows from her mind at last.

It's Ressler who tells her that Red is gone.

She can't put a name to the sensation that wells inside her.

"Gone?" she says, trying to keep her voice level; glad for the days of unconsciousness that excuse the hoarse cracks. "Another 'business trip'?"

"No," Ressler replies, his tone grim. "Not this time. This time, he's _gone._ As in, left the U.S. entirely, and isn't coming back — to the FBI, at least."

Her head swims and her stomach roils horribly.

"But his immunity agreement," she protests feebly. "Will we go after him?" A tiny shred of hope.

Ressler shakes his head, looking disgusted.

"He talked to Cooper," he explains. "Not until he was safe on his jet over the Atlantic, of course. He's promised to send information, to keep giving us Blacklisters. Just not in person. He said…" He hesitates, looking at her carefully. "He said that he wanted you to be able to choose another life, after everything that happened."

She can't breathe properly and she thinks she might be sick. How could he ever think she would choose anything but him, _after everything_?

Thankfully, the nurse comes bustling in then, and Ressler has to leave. When she's alone again, with a fresh dose of drugs to make her sleepy and weak, she lets herself weep. For the monster that she became; for the ruin that she wrought.

For her own pitiful broken heart.

* * *

Week one on her own she spends in her hospital bed, wallowing, grateful for the painkillers that keep her drowsy and dull.

Week two, they make her get up and start walking, regaining muscle control and strength. She starts watching the evening news, privately hoping for some tidbit, even one tiny piece of him. And she gets it, too — just not at all the way she expected.

What she gets is a story about an apartment fire in Bethesda, a terrible one that completely destroyed the building. There's just enough of the structure and surroundings left for her to recognize it with horrified shock. Nobody was hurt — apparently an alarm had emptied the building shortly before the fire took hold. The authorities were investigating, but it looked like bad wiring.

She weeps so hard that she tears stitches.

Week three, she is released from the hospital, and pours real effort into physical therapy, with vague hopes of being well in time to track him down pushing her forward. Although she knows, really, that there's no point.

Week four, she's cleared for active duty. Instead, after a lot of thought and back in therapy, she goes into the Post Office and resigns. The thought of field work is now as much an anathema to her as it was once an excitement.

She can't face doing it without him.

Week five, she mopes around her apartment ridiculously, until even she is sick of herself. She gets a haircut, and starts job hunting.

Week six, Dembe calls her for the first time. They're okay, he says, keeping busy and moving around a lot. Red doesn't know he's checking in; not yet. He promises to call again. He misses her, they both do, he says, very gently.

When he hangs up, she cries herself to sleep for what she tells herself will be the last time.

Week seven, she decides that she will stop counting her life in weeks. She gets a job, working with children who have been victims of violent crime, and finds it both challenging and rewarding. She gains back a bit of weight, and starts running in the cool of the mornings. She has dinner with Aram, with Samar, with a friendly colleague from work.

She is making a life for herself, new and clean and all her own. If there's a gaping, ragged hole in it where he belongs, she can still be relatively content.

Dembe starts calling weekly, and she enjoys their renewed friendship as much as the tidbits he drops about Red. He often tells her a funny story about something they've been up to. Less frequently, brief updates on Red's health and behaviour.

He's losing weight again, but Dembe makes sure he eats a good meal at least once a day.

He's drinking too much, but Dembe keeps an eye on him.

He's alone too often, so Dembe has arranged for them to spend a week in Monaco with an old friend.

He's sleeping better, with fewer nightmares and for longer stretches.

He knows that Dembe is keeping in touch; he asks about her, after every phone call.

After that, she starts asking if she can see him, if they will come back to Washington, Every time, he says, _not yet_.

When her birthday comes around, she actually enjoys dinner out with her small circle of friends. When she gets home, although her door is still locked and everything is in place, there's single red rose on her kitchen table. A sticky note from her drawer lies underneath: _Thinking of you — R._

She is able to smile instead of weep, and let hope sprout again.

* * *

Three weeks later, six months to the day — not that she's keeping track — since they faced down Solomon, Dembe texts her an address and a time.

When she arrives — after changing her outfit six times like a teenager on a first date — she recognizes it as the house of the esoteric writer, Frederick Hempstead. She walks into the living room, and there he is, thinner and looking a bit tired, in rolled-up shirtsleeves and an open vest, watching the sun set through the big bay window.

He turns when he hears her footsteps. He looks…nervous, and it's so unlike him that she hesitates. But his eyes are warm and clear, and he's smiling as he looks at her, so she closes the rest of the distance between them.

"Elizabeth," he says, and his voice is familiar and rich and wonderful. "It's good to see you."

She smiles at him, a real and true smile, one that she hasn't worn in months.

"I've missed you," she says softly. "It's been a bit lonely living on my own — I love my apartment, I really do, it's just…quiet."

"Sometimes," he answers, "a moment of true quiet is worth more than anything else."

He doesn't mean anything more than what he says, but her smile slips away.

"I guess I can see why you don't miss me, too," she says. "I wasn't…I…" She smiles again, but it's small and twisted this time. "'I'm sorry' just doesn't feel appropriate."

"Please don't even think about it," he says reassuringly. "You…"

"I try not to think about it," she interrupts him, moving closer, touching her fingertips to his cheek, letting them trail down his neck. "But it's all there in my head — is it in yours too?"

He closes his eyes briefly; manages to keep his smile in place. "Give it time," he says gently. "Everything eases with time — it's a cliché for a reason."

"I'd like…what I'd like to do," she says, voice trembling a little, "is make those memories into something else. Something better. Will you let me do that, Red? Try to heal what's between us? Will you let me show you everything you mean to me?"

And without letting him speak, even if he was capable of forming an answer to these multi-layered questions, she steps into his body, pressing flush against him, and kisses him, soft and sweet and full of all the love she has kept waiting for him.

In the first instant, it feels so good to touch him again, to inhale his spicy scent; in the second, she realizes he stands stiff and unresponsive. She pulls back so fast it's almost a leap, everything inside her curling small in shame.

"I–I'm so sorry," she stammers unhappily. "I didn't mean to…"

He stops her with a gentle hand on her cheek, and she can't help but lean into it, just the tiniest bit. He doesn't look angry or upset, just sad, or maybe regretful.

"It's all right, Elizabeth," he says quietly. "I _have_ missed you, and I'm very pleased to see you so well."

But she's uncomfortable now, too, unsure of her footing.

"We need to talk about…things," she says reluctantly. "There's so much that I wish…"

"Do you think it can wait?" he cuts in, frowning a little now. "I just…I need a little more time. To get to know you again, the real you."

Her heart twists with a strange mixture of pain and happiness.

"Does that mean you'll be around for a while?"

He offers a half-smile and a small shrug.

"Not all the time," he says. "But if you want to see me…"

"Red, of course I do!" she cries, her eyes shining. "You're…I…" She doesn't really know what she wants to say. She doesn't want to overwhelm him or push him away. "Would you consider spending time with me?"

He raises a puzzled eyebrow.

"Isn't that what we've been talking about?"

She blushes, feeling ridiculous.

"No…I mean, yes, but…I'd like…" She takes a deep breath and mentally slaps herself. "I'd like to take you to dinner. Maybe the theatre?"

He's giving her such a look that she absolutely has to stop talking, filled with hope and embarrassment; happiness and pain.

"Elizabeth," he says slowly, "are you…asking me on a _date_?"

His tone is so incredulous that she wishes she could sink into the floor and disappear.

"I'm sorry," she says again, miserably. "Of course, you don't…"

"I think," he interrupts, still slowly but with a new lightness in his tone and expression, "that I would like that. I'd like nothing better than to spend some time with you."

And so, she finds herself in the slightly surreal position of courting Raymond Reddington.


	19. Chapter 19

They do go out for dinner — that night, and then again, at least once every time he comes into town. Sometimes, she picks nice places that she thinks might please or impress him; sometimes, she takes him to her new favourite noodle shop, or the shawarma cart near her office.

He is, of course, equally at home at all of them.

He is unfailingly courteous, and always seems to enjoy himself, both pleased to see her and an excellent and entertaining companion. If the loving warmth that she seeks and misses is still lacking…well, it takes time, she tells herself firmly. She won't give up without a good hard fight.

She works diligently to become part of his life again. When he's away, she makes a point of texting him at least once a day — maybe something funny or interesting that's happened to her, maybe a photo of something she's seen that appeals to her. He rarely answers her, but Dembe tells her that he often shares her missives, which she takes as a good sign.

When they're together, they talk endlessly — about anything and everything except their recent shared past. They settle into an easy camaraderie, different than either of their former relationships; one that she sees as true friendship, and a solid foundation.

The first time he initiates contact, calling her even before Dembe has let her know they've arrived in town, she's delighted.

The first time he genuinely laughs with her, his face crinkled with amusement at the story she is telling him, she wishes she could bottle the sound, and the feeling behind it, and keep it with her.

One night, walking on the pier, he calls her "Lizzie", and her joy is nearly overwhelming. Unable to contain herself completely, she slips her hand into his. He doesn't flinch away, his voice doesn't falter — he just wraps his fingers around hers in a warm squeeze, then lets their hands swing together gently as they walk.

She loves him more than she thought was possible.

* * *

He doesn't quite know why he agrees to see her at all, except for the way Dembe worries for him, except for the emptiness of his life. He thinks he may _need_ to see her again, to exorcise the memories that he cannot seem to shake.

She was the purpose in his life for so long, he doesn't know how to move forward without her driving him.

So he and Dembe return to Washington, quietly. He chooses the old writer's house, for the comfort of its cluttered familiarity, for the beauty of its setting. There's a solace in it that eases him.

When he sees her again, standing in front of him, nervous but smiling, he is struck deep within. She's so beautiful that it takes his breath away — familiar, yet different, with shorter hair, a healthy glow, and an air of peace that he's not sure he's ever seen in her.

When she kisses him, though, his system freezes, his mind flooding with hateful images that he can't stop. But her face in her retreat is so miserable that he has to reach out, in spite of himself, somehow still compelled to care for her as he has always been.

And somehow, they end up… _dating_.

She appears, to his bemusement, to be waging a gentle war of attrition — gradually wearing away at his defences to become a part of him once more. They eat meals together, take walks, talk about all manner of things. She texts him often — daily, at least — and he enjoys her bits and pieces, the images of her day, the little insights into her mind.

He becomes increasingly comfortable with her — and amused by the way her tactics seem to be working. He sees parts of her that he can remember from before…Braxton, and parts that are new — a confidence and strength that she has earned.

He starts to be eager to see her again, missing her when he is called out of town. He starts taking more initiative, calling her, proposing outings, rather than waiting for her to come to him. He thinks about her often, sees things in his travels that call her to mind, tucks stories away to tell her the next time they're together.

He finds himself calling her "Lizzie" again, holding her hand and seeking reasons to casually touch her, as he did when they first worked together. A light touch on the small of her back, a hand in or out of the car, an arm around her shoulders if she shivers in the night air.

He feels slightly ridiculous about it all, and that's how he knows it's real.

* * *

One evening, she is quiet and withdrawn, her face tired and worried. She picks at her food and he knows she isn't really paying attention to their conversation. He takes her home to her apartment after dinner, invites himself in, and sits her down on the couch.

"What's wrong today, Lizzie?" he asks gently. "Did something happen at work?"

"Oh no," she says, smiling wanly at him. "I'm fine, really."

"Elizabeth," he persists, "don't lie to me, not now. We're past that, aren't we?"

She tries on a better smile, but it doesn't convince either of them. He raises an eyebrow at her and she sighs.

"A bit of a hard time in therapy today, that's all," she says, not meeting his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She shrugs, fidgeting, picking at non-existent lint on her pants leg.

"You don't have to," he says, putting his hand over hers to still her. "But it might help."

"She thinks I'm doing the wrong thing," she says unhappily. "With you, I mean. She says that making amends is one thing, but that 'pursuing' someone that I _victimized_ is unfair, even cruel. That it puts you in an awful position, again."

He is filled with a very peculiar sensation — is it guilt? Remorse? Or is it a last little bit of vindictive pleasure at having his pain justified? Most likely, it is a combination of all three things, all tied up with his caring and need for her.

"I won't lie to you either," he says slowly. "The things that happened between us did hurt me — they hurt me terribly."

A lone tear slides down her cheek. He reaches out to cup her cheek and turn her face to his.

"I don't see it in you anymore," he says, realizing as the words come out that they are true.

She leans into his hand a little, like she can't help it, her eyes wet and her face pale and drawn.

"I don't want to push," she says. "The things I did to you were…unconscionable. I…"

"Stop," he says firmly, more sure of himself now. "It wasn't so simple, and I think we both know that. And, Lizzie," he continues, feeling the weight of it all, "I hurt you, too. Don't try and deny it. I didn't have to let those things happen — I'm quite sure that I'm stronger than you are. And in letting you take your anger and fear out on me in such destructive ways — it's entirely possible that I did you more harm than good."

She looks at him soberly from under her eyelashes, a quiet contemplation stealing over her features.

"Why didn't you?" she asks softly. "Why didn't you stop me, Red?"

"I–I couldn't," he answers, hating having to show her his weakness, to confess his sins. "Because under it all, beyond everything that happened, Lizzie…I wanted you. You were already _mine_. If you hated me for it, if I was to be punished for it — it was no more than what I was due."

A wash of emotion blurs her face, sadness, regret, but also a spark of happiness that lifts the weight, just a little. However black his desire seems to him, it seems she is glad of it, at least a little.

"Oh…oh, Red," she murmurs brokenly. "I'm so sorry, so sorry. How can I ever…you _cannot_ blame yourself for my actions."

He hesitates, then nods. "Your actions were your own, although I maintain that they were spurred by the shadows that…creature left in your mind. The need for violence that he instilled had to find an outlet." And just saying it makes him feels better, makes it right and real. "But I am responsible for bringing him into your life. I _am_ responsible for the ruin of everything that you held dear."

"I don't know if that's true or not," she says sadly. "Maybe they would have found me anyway — isn't that why you came to me in the first place? But you have more than paid for any harm you did me — I tried to hurt you, I _wanted_ you to suffer. I…I'm as much a monster as any Blacklister."

"No," he insists, firming his grip on her so that she has to look at him. This thought is so bizarrely wrong to him that it clears his mind further. "Lizzie, _no_. None of it was _you_ , not the real you. Solomon…"

"I think it was," she interrupts, dropping her eyes despite his efforts. "A part of me, anyway. I've worked to make my peace with that."

He feels easier now, and he smiles, even though she cannot see it.

"We all have a dark side, I suppose," he admits. "I have certainly committed my share of terrible acts, atrocities I must live with. You aren't alone, Elizabeth." The little leftovers tears in his spirit are healing over gently now, with all their inky confessions out in the open.

"We are new people now, aren't we? Can these two people forgive each other, then, sweetheart, and start fresh?"

She looks back up at him, offering a tremulous, watery smile, and the rest of the shadow that has haunted him lifts away.

"Yes," she says. "I think we can."

With his hands still cupping her face, he rubs a thumb over her lips gently so they part slightly on a breath. Then, slowly, savouring, he leans in and kisses her, sweet and light as a feather.

His entire body lights with the wonder of it.

* * *

He's kissing her, _oh_ , and his lips are warm and soft, his hands are gentle on her skin, and neither of them are breathing. She thinks she may drown in the dreamy joy of it.

She shifts her body, turning so that she can slide her hands around his neck, stroke lightly at his skin, keep him close to her. He sighs under her touch, and they both let go and breathe together in relief as their lips move, slick and warm. He skims his hands down her body, away from her face, one arm wrapping around her back, the other curving around her neck to tangle in her hair.

His tongue strokes lightly along her bottom lip; she opens to him willingly, eager to taste him, joining with him in a long slide that has him tightening his arms to pull their bodies together with a little growl.

Her insides flutter and curl like smoke, her body alive and yearning. His hand trails out of her hair to trace the line of her neck, making her shiver; he continues down her body to cup her breast, smooth his thumb over the already-pebbled peak. Sensation thrills through her, her breath gusting out in a sighing moan as she pushes into his hand.

She wants him, just him, with a clean, pure desire that floods her like a wash of light, and it's so lovely she trembles under the power of it.

"Come to bed," she says against his mouth, every brush of skin a fresh tingle of heat.

All his fingers tighten on her in a brief reactive flex, then he's standing up, pulling her with him so that he can keep kissing her, again and again, like he can't stop. He starts walking her backward, mouth still locked on hers, as if breaking apart to walk beside one another down the short hallway will put them too far apart.

They stumble to her bedroom in a laughing mess of hands and feet and sloppy kisses. His hands pull at her blouse so he can run his hands up her spine; she fumbles with his tie, yanks at the buttons of his shirt. Locked together, kicking off shoes, they trip across the floor and land on her bed in a tangle of limbs.

She kisses him as fiercely as she clings to him, wrapping around him as if her body can be her love manifest, can make him hers. He's smiling at her now, pulling away and raising her up so he can strip off her top in one smooth, impatient yank.

His eyes darken as his gaze takes in her network of scars; as he presses a finger to the "R" over her heart, still clear and crisp.

"Don't," she says, "don't be sad. I don't mind them anymore — they remind me that I'm strong, that I won, in the end. And that one," she continues, putting her hand over his, "is my favourite. Because that's the one that reminds me that I belong to you."

"Oh, Lizzie," he says, voice a low, rumbling groan. "Oh, Lizzie, love."

Then his clever hands are slipping off her bra and he's everywhere at once, painting a map of her torso with fingertips and tongue in an ecstasy of touch and taste. She arches into him, dissolving into a writhing mess beneath him, hot and wet and desperate.

She tangles her fingers in his shirt again, pulling and tugging in futility, her brain unable to make her hands work together. He laughs a little and withdraws to stand up and strip, neatly and efficiently. Standing beside her, all golden skin and curly hair and padded muscle, he leans in and peels off her pants and underwear together, letting his fingers trail over her ever so lightly.

She reaches for him and he obliges, stretching out beside her to kiss her again, to play his fingers over all the pieces of her he has yet to touch. She shivers and clenches and hooks a leg around his hip so that he rocks into her, hot and hard.

He hums into her mouth, shifts away a little — he appears to be in no hurry, none at all — but obliges her a little with a firmer touch and a line of hard suckling kisses down the side of her neck and across her collarbone.

Then, just as he puts his mouth to her breast, one of his roving hands slides against her center and she cries out. He strokes and kisses and bites and sucks; he uncovers all her secrets and she revels in it, moving under his hands and mouth in needy abandon. She grips his head at her breast, unsure if she wants more or needs less; her other hand digs into his back, pulling, pulling him to her.

He slides over her at last with a rumbling groan, covering her with his strong body and pushing into her like a missing piece. She winds her limbs around him and finds his mouth with hers, pouring her love into her kiss as they fuse together.

They move together in perfect tandem; advance and retreat, again and again. She lets him set the slow, rolling pace that he seems to want, though it's not nearly enough — she uses the time to imprint every bit of it to memory, every touch and taste and smell.

The way he cradles her in his arms like something precious. The salt and scotch and spice of his mouth; the heat of his kiss. The slick slide of their perspiring bodies against one another; the indescribable feel of him moving inside her.

But now the pressure is too much, and she jolts him out of his lazy rhythm with a shift of her body and a nip at his lip that makes him grunt in startlement. He braces himself on his elbows, watching her face as he drives in and out of her, until she's gasping and rubbing against him with every twist of her hips.

He presses his forehead to hers as he finds his release, pushing deep and hard into her so that she tumbles over the edge with him in a pulsing rush. He hovers for long moments, planting soft kisses on her face, her neck, her shoulders. He whispers words that she can't understand through the roaring in her ears as she lies still and limp, trying to remember how to breathe.

As he finally extracts himself from her grip and drops his body beside her, wrapping her tightly in his arms, she knows a crystal clear moment of simple peace. She curls into him, resting her lips over his heart, content.

"Red?" she says, needing one more thing.

"Mm?" he replies in a sleepy mumble, kissing her temple and running his fingers through her hair.

"I love you," she says. "I think I always did."

A long, long moment passes.

"Lizzie," he sighs finally. "Oh, sweetheart, I love you."

He pulls the blanket up and over them, rolling to his back to hold her close, hands soothing as they rub against her skin. She nestles as near as possible, tucking her arms around him and pressing her cheek into his shoulder.

And they slip away into sleep, knowing they are safe in each other's keeping.


End file.
